


but there’s no preparing for this

by littlesnowpea



Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Amused Pete, Enemies to Lovers, False Identity, Libraries, M/M, Merry Christmas No I Don’t Care That It’s November, Miscommunication, Patrick Is A Grouch, The Library AU no one asked for, There’s Absolutely No Way Any Of This Will Go Wrong ™️, These Two Are A Hot Mess But When Aren’t They, Yes I Am A Librarian Yes I Write Fanfiction We Exist, grumpy patrick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-01-26 09:09:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 39,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21371674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlesnowpea/pseuds/littlesnowpea
Summary: Out of absolutely everything in the Central Chicago Public Library that Patrick was proud of, the number one thing was the erotica section. Was that a weird thing to be proud of? Possibly. But everyone knows librarians are the weirdest people on the planet.On the other hand, the one thing Patrick absolutely hated about his job was difficult patrons. And the most difficult patron in the existence of difficult patrons was Pete Wentz, a man who had a big mouth and bad opinions about Patrick’s erotica section. Patrick could happily go the rest of his career without seeing Pete Wentz ever again. Like, ever. He had a loud voice and grating jokes and Patrick hoped he’d stay far, far away this weekend when Central Chicago Public Library played host to Kingston Lewis, the best erotica writer this century.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 508
Kudos: 279
Collections: Read Again They Were Good (clayrin)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PlatinumAndPercocet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlatinumAndPercocet/gifts).

> this was born out of my little gay librarian heart and i’m not sorry. no i don’t have an erotica collection but i am a tween librarian so i don’t have the opportunity. working title was “Local Librarian Meets His Favorite Author. You Won’t Believe What Happens Next! (not clickbait)”
> 
> thanks to the pack for their cheerleading. i hope you enjoy.
> 
> title from ‘dear future self (hands up)’

Out of absolutely everything in the Central Chicago Public Library that Patrick was proud of, the number one thing was the erotica section. Was that a weird thing to be proud of? Possibly. But everyone knows librarians are the weirdest people on the planet. 

On the other hand, the one thing Patrick absolutely hated about his job was difficult patrons. And the most difficult patron in the existence of difficult patrons was Pete Wentz, a man who had a big mouth and bad opinions about Patrick’s erotica section. Patrick could happily go the rest of his career without seeing Pete Wentz ever again. Like, ever. He had a loud voice and grating jokes and Patrick hoped he’d stay far, far away this weekend when Central Chicago Public Library played host to Kingston Lewis, the best erotica writer this century. 

The event was Patrick’s pride and joy, a rare gem amongst a sea of kid’s events—not that Patrick had anything against kid’s events per say, it was more that for every adult event there were at least ten kid’s events and Patrick had been waiting literal years to meet Kingston Lewis and showcase his carefully maintained collection. 

And Pete Wentz needed to stay far, far away.

“Can I help you?” he asked. Pete Wentz had the _ audacity _ to smirk his unfairly attractive smirk. Patrick counted to ten in his head, then counted to ten again in Japanese. 

Pete Wentz, to Patrick’s horror, held up a flyer for the Kingston Lewis event, cocking an eyebrow like he could see the panic on Patrick’s face. Patrick preemptively promised God he would go back to church if Pete Wentz ended up far, far away through some divine miracle. 

“I was wondering,” Wentz said, apparently unaware that he had just disproved the existence of God. “About this event. Isn’t this dude an porn writer?”

“It’s called _erotica_,” Patrick said tightly. Wentz’s smirk grew. 

“Right,” he said slowly. “Don’t sound too interested now.”

“I’ll sound however I want, thanks,” Patrick said. “Can I help you?”

He hoped Wentz would take the hint

Wentz did not take the hint. 

“Don’t kids come to this library?” Wentz asked. He was infuriating. Not infuriatingly hot, just infuriating. Wentz wasn’t hot. 

Patrick was possibly having a stroke. 

“We are allowed adult events,” Patrick pointed out. He stabbed a finger at the flyer Wentz still held in his hand. “See? Right there. It says adults only.”

“I can’t read,” Wentz said, the liar. 

“You’re a liar,” Patrick said. “I’m gonna ask for the third time. Is there something I can help you with?”

“No,” Wentz said, and the smirk was still firmly in place. Patrick counted to ten in French. It wasn’t very successful. “You answered my question.”

“Fantastic,” Patrick lied. “Then you don’t mind if I get back to work.”

“What work do you have in a library?” Wentz asked, probably to just be a dick. Patrick narrowed his eyes anyway, considering rising to the bait. Wentz cracked a grin that was too amused to be reassuring, and said: “Everyone knows being a librarian is the world’s easiest job.”

Patrick rose to the bait. 

“Tell that to the degree you have to have to be a librarian,” he said. “Are you familiar with a degree? It’s what smart people get so I understand if you’re a little confused.”

“Touche,” Pete said, and he still sounded amused, damn it. Patrick scowled. “Perhaps I’ll see you at your porno event.”

“Erotica,” Patrick corrected, but Wentz was already wandering away, letting the flyer fall to the ground like he was raised by _wolves_ or something. Patrick’s scowl intensified and he grit his jaw as he watched the world’s worst patron leave the library, sliding stupid hipster sunglasses on and rounding the corner out of sight. 

Patrick felt more than saw someone approach him from behind, leaning against the desk and folding their arms. 

“I see you had another run in with your secret crush,” Joe said, and Patrick didn’t even grace him with a look. “That good, huh?”

“Stop leaning on the reference desk,” Patrick said sharply. “Don’t you have the bookdrop to do? Or literally anything else other than bothering me? And don’t ever suggest I have a crush on Wentz again, that is the most offensive thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Mayhaps,” Joe said. What an asshole. “Andy sent me to give you a break.”

“You can’t break me,” Patrick said, finally looking at Joe’s infuriatingly smug face. Joe looked, if possible, even more smug. “You’re a specialist. Only librarians work the reference desk. So no, Andy did not send you. Try again.”

Joe smirked. Patrick maybe hated him a little. 

“I was asked to find a manager,” he finally said, standing back up straight and straightening the frankly ridiculous vest he wore. He didn’t need to wear the vest. Or the tie. Libraries were casual dress. Joe was just a weirdo. “Karen doesn’t understand why she has to pay for a book that looks like it was put through the wash.”

“Is Karen her real name, or just the first white lady name you could think of?” Patrick asked, finally standing and buttoning his cardigan, which was _appropriate_ work wear, Joseph. He clipped his name badge--abandoned as soon as he’d seen Wentz--back on, adjusting it until it was prominent: _Patrick Stump, adult librarian_.

“Who cares what her real name is?” Joe snorted, and Patrick rolled his eyes again. “Go rip her a new one.”

“I will not be ripping anyone _a new one_,” Patrick protested, but Joe just smirked and dropped into Patrick’s abandoned chair. “I am not covering for you if Andy gets mad that you’re at the reference desk.”

“I have no fear of the circulation supervisor,” Joe said, probably lying, and Patrick shook his head and walked away. He rolled his shoulders back--he should have prepared better for being the person in charge today, but he was distracted by ordering Kingston Lewis’s new book and Pete Fucking Wentz.

No matter. There was always room in him for managerial tasks, despite not being the manager. He got compliments all the time from the actual manager. 

Okay, sure, maybe perhaps Brendon in fact told him his attitude could make the meanest motherfucker run, but that was just semantics. 

“Hello,” he said as he approached the lady with the Can-I-Speak-To-The-Manager haircut. She scowled. Great start. “I understand you wanted to speak with a manager?”

“I did,” she said. Her voice was grating. Patrick grimaced, but internally, so he didn’t damage his nonexistent cred. Instead, he smiled at her, that vacant, dead smile of public service workers who just want the day to be over. “I don’t understand why I have to pay for this book.”

She thrust said book up, smacking Patrick in the chest. Patrick’s eyebrow raised slightly as he looked down at the condition of what he supposed he legally had to call _a book_. True to Joe’s word, it really did look like it had been through the wash. Possibly several times. And then peed on, apparently by an entire herd of cats. Colony? What was a group of cats called?

“That book is damaged,” Patrick said, instead of what he _wanted_ to say, which was _are you being deliberately obtuse or are you just naturally this stupid._ He reached out and pushed the book away from him with the tip of his finger, hoping his little bottle of pumpkin-scented hand sanitizer was still in his pocket. He was pretty sure about nine communicable diseases lived on that book. “I can assure you we do not allow books in this condition to circulate. Thus, you must have damaged it. Let me know where I lost you.”

“I didn’t damage it,” Karen said. It was a good choice of name, not that Patrick would tell Joe that. It would go straight to his head. “It came like this.”

“This book is still dripping,” Patrick said, eying the puddle the book was making on the brand new carpet. For the love of God. Karen scowled. 

“I’m not paying for it,” she declared triumphantly, as if she’d won, and Patrick just shrugged one shoulder. 

“Okay,” he said, and Karen faltered a bit. “We’ll see you at collections.”

Karen scowled again, something nasty, like she’d discovered a fly in her french fries or dog shit smeared across her front porch by a group of teenagers, which, to be honest, Patrick would not have been surprised to hear actually happened. Karen opened her mouth but words apparently failed her, presumably because Patrick’s face had his carefully crafted _I don’t care, don’t bother_ expression firmly glued on. 

Evidently realizing she was not going to get her way, she dropped the book--Patrick resisted gagging at the wet squelching noise it made--and stormed for the front doors, purse banging against her leg in what looked like a supremely uncomfortable way. Patrick carefully stepped around the book, leaning over the circulation desk and picking up the phone. 

“Joe to the circulation desk,” he said, and hung up, smirking as his voice echoed on the intercom. It was a damaged book--Joe’s problem now. Maybe this would wipe that smirk off his face. 

“That was kind of hot,” someone said from behind Patrick and Patrick’s heart stopped before kicking into high gear, racing like he’d run a marathon. He turned around and a very unattractive and unimpressive strangled _guh_ left his mouth without his express permission as his eyes landed on the last person Patrick wanted to hear use the word _hot_ in reference to him. 

“I thought you were leaving,” Patrick said, once he had his breathing under control. “Things to do. Places to go. Other people to annoy.”

Pete Wentz smiled that very unfortunately attractive smile, stupid sunglasses perched on his head, hands in his pockets, looking like a tool but like, a hot tool.

Except for how Pete Wentz _was not hot_ and Patrick probably had, like, a brain tumor. He wondered if Kingston Lewis would attend his funeral and say nice things about Patrick’s erotica collection. Patrick cleared his throat. 

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said. Pete Wentz once again did not take the hint. 

“I had a reference question,” he said, and Patrick counted to ten in Spanish, now officially out of languages he knew how to count to ten in. He fixed Pete Wentz with a disbelieving stare, and Pete Wentz had the audacity to smirk. “It’s very important.”

“I’m sure it is,” Patrick said, and it only came out a little strangled. Patrick counted it as a victory. “Let me get back to the reference desk.”

“After you,” Pete Wentz said, gesturing ahead of him. “I’d like to see how well those pants fit.”

Patrick glared at him. Pete Wentz smirked _again_ and then winked. 

“Sexual harassment is ground for banning you from the library,” Patrick informed him haughtily. “So shut the hell up.”

“Duly noted,” Pete Wentz said seriously, nodding. “My apologies.”

It was impossible to tell if Pete Wentz was being serious or not, but Patrick refused to ask any further questions to determine either way. Personally he was hoping Pete Wentz would try something so Patrick could be rid of him once and for all. 

Unfortunately, Pete Wentz did not try something. He, in fact, followed Patrick remarkably quietly to the reference desk. One sharp look sent Joe _scurrying_, which Patrick was absolutely going to gloat about later, and Patrick claimed his seat back holding his head up high. 

“Okay,” he said, pulling up the secret reference trick he used, Google. “Your question?”

Pete--the full name was getting exhausting--leaned on the desk, like he was gearing up for something Patrick was pretty sure he wasn’t going to like. Patrick braced himself but Pete still managed to throw him off once he finally spoke. 

“So I’m trying to do research,” he began, which was surprising for a number of reasons, mostly because Patrick suspected Pete didn’t know what research was to begin with. “And it’s been hard. So maybe you could help me. I get multiple dates when I Google it. When did the corset fall out of fashion?”

The _corset_? On the long list of things Patrick expected Pete to want him to look up, anything regarding corsets was nonexistent. Patrick’s fingers hovered over the keys for a long moment before he quickly switched from Google to the library’s database on fashion history. He typed in _corsets_ into the search bar and 127 results popped up. 

Patrick breathed. 

A quick scroll through found an article about the timeline of corsets--corsetry?--that looked promising, so he opened it up and hit _print_. 

The ancient and likely possessed printer booted up and spat out the five pages with entirely more noise than the action called for and Patrick handed the still-warm printout to Pete without a word. 

“Uh,” Pete said, glancing down. “This is great. Thanks. Ten cents a page?”

“It truly pains me to tell you this,” Patrick informed Pete. “But reference printouts are free.”

Pete grinned. Patrick hated it. 

“Well, thanks,” Pete said again, then nodded his head towards the carefully placed poster for Patrick’s Kingston Lewis event. “Will I be seeing you there?”

“It’s my event,” Patrick said, instead of the horrified _you’re coming?_ he wanted to say. “So yes.”

“Sweet,” Pete said, still grinning. “Thanks again.”

For the second time today, Patrick watched the world’s worst patron walk out of the library onto the busy Chicago street.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is Patrick Stump,” he said, picking up the phone and rolling his shoulders back, as if Kingston Lewis’s manager could see him through the line. “How may I help you?”
> 
> “Smith,” the person on the other end said, sounding bored. “Spencer Smith, Kingston Lewis’s manager. I wanted to ask you a few questions about the event next week.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posted EARLIER THAN USUAL by demand of the pack *glares* 
> 
> i’m just kidding i’d do anything they asked. 
> 
> i’m not sure why all the commenters think kingston lewis is pete? whatever gave you that idea? :D
> 
> thanks for reading, enjoy!

“Absolutely not,” Patrick said loudly from where he was _supposed_ to be relaxed in the break room but was, in actuality, surrounded by work he was behind on. “I am on lunch.”

“Yep,” Brendon said, staring pointedly at Patrick’s work laptop, open in front of him on the table like some kind of snitch. “Really and truly looks like it. I have a phone call for you.”

“Tell them I’m at lunch,” Patrick suggested, even as he stood. “What about?”

“It’s your little author’s manager,” Brendon said, and Patrick began walking almost before Brendon had finished speaking. Was it rude to treat his manager like this? Patrick didn’t care. 

“This is Patrick Stump,” he said, picking up the phone and rolling his shoulders back, as if Kingston Lewis’s manager could see him through the line. “How may I help you?”

“Smith,” the person on the other end said, sounding bored. “Spencer Smith, Kingston Lewis’s manager. I wanted to ask you a few questions about the event next week.”

Patrick breathed. 

“Of course,” he said, proud of how he didn’t sound nervous at all, pretty much. “We’re still on, correct?”

“Would I be calling otherwise?” Smith said dryly and Patrick felt himself flush. “Anyway, we have some requirements. Kingston wants to make sure you have a way to keep kids away from the event.”

Patrick nodded, even though he was pretty sure Smith couldn’t see him. 

“Of course,” he said, once he got his power of speech back. “The forum room has shades and we will have two staff members at the door.”

“Good,” Smith said. “And I assume you’ll have some sort of microphone?”

“We have a PA system.” Patrick felt a little annoyed. What kind of library did Smith take them for?

“Good,” Smith repeated. “That’s all for now. See you in a week.”

Smith hung up without waiting for Patrick to say a single word in response, and Patrick was left half gaping, half scowling at the receiver in his hand. He felt Brendon’s smirk bore into his back and preemptively wiped any displeasure off his face. He fought for this event. He was not about to let anyone laugh at him. Hell no.

“So that went well?” Brendon asked, like the dick he was. Sometimes. Patrick resisted rolling his eyes in a move so heroic there would be statues dedicated to his bravery in the future. He stood up straight. 

“All authors are picky,” he said dismissively. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Right,” Brendon said shortly. “Oh, also-- we got a comment card.”

“I am on _lunch_,” Patrick protested, but took the offered card anyway, glancing down to read it. “Oh, fuck this.”

“Language,” Brendon said mildly, as if every other word out of his mouth wasn’t a curse word. Manager privileges, Patrick supposed. Still, he shook the comment card vaguely threateningly at Brendon, before reading past the scrawled _Pete Wentz_ in the _Patron Name_ section. 

“_One of your librarians is very helpful,_” he read, resisting groaning. “_I believe his name is Patrick_\--oh, he believes, as if he hasn’t been stalking me for months.”

“Tell us how you really feel,” Brendon said. Patrick ignored him. 

“_However, I believe the phrase is ‘service with a smile’ and a smile Patrick sorely lacks. Perhaps he should have a refresher in customer service._”

Patrick looked up at Brendon, who looked like he was barely suppressing laughter. He narrowed his eyes. 

“This better not affect my performance review,” he said, and Brendon snorted, plucking the comment card out of Patrick’s hand and slipping it into the pocket of his frankly too-tight jeans. 

“No worries,” he said sardonically. “A lot more will affect your performance review before this will.”

“Dick,” Patrick said. Brendon grinned. 

“There there,” he said. “Weren’t you at lunch?”

“Yeah,” Patrick said darkly. “Before you interrupted it.”

“Sure,” Brendon said. “You know who gets in trouble if the union catches you working on lunch right? It’s not you, in case you thought otherwise.”

“Who is it?” Patrick asked in his best innocent voice. “Andy?”

“You’re on thin fucking ice, buddy,” Brendon said, and Patrick smirked. 

“Language,” he said, and Brendon rolled his eyes.

“Go back to your ‘lunch’,” he said, actually making the air quotes like the loser he was. “I will call you if your fanboy services are needed anytime soon.”

“Fanboy is a _degrading_ term,” Patrick protested, but Brendon was already wandering away. Patrick took a second to look him up and down--yep. Dressed like a disinterested teenager being forced to volunteer at the library instead of a twenty-nine year old _Branch Manager_. Patrick totally could have been a manager. It was totally within his abilities. He just _chose_ not to apply and was now enduring having a manager three years younger than him with the grace of long-dead saints. 

Or something. 

Patrick sighed and made his way back to the break room. He had a lot to do before next week. This event was going to go perfectly if it killed Patrick. 

And if Pete Wentz showed up, it might just kill Patrick. 

——

“Patrick to the adult reference desk.”

Patrick groaned and rolled his head back to glare at the intercom box in his office. He was busy. He specifically said that unless something was on fire and neither Brendon nor the children’s librarian could handle it, he was to be left _alone_. He’d already dealt with Kingston Lewis’s shitty manager and Karen, his customer service gas tank was running on empty. 

He stood, and reconsidered. Perhaps expecting Hayley to handle a branch crisis in her second week was too harsh. 

Still. They did have a manager. 

He’d managed to find his best vacant smile somewhere in the cavernous depths of his soul and paste it on haphazardly by the time he got to the adult reference desk. He expected a lot of things. More furious patrons. The ghost of Christmas past, disregarding the fact that it was six months late (early?) for that. The Director of the library, come to give him a commendation. 

He stopped dead four feet away and his poor, fragile grin dove thirty feet into Hell. 

“You called?” he asked, and Hayley looked nervous. 

She gestured between herself and that _monstrosity_ as if words genuinely failed her. Patrick watched her struggle for a moment before finding the tiniest sliver of pity he had and offering it to her. 

“I know he asked for me specifically,” he said. “Could you do me a favor? Could you move all the Bibles to the fiction section? I’ve just discovered God is a hoax.”

Hayley hesitated and Patrick sighed. 

“Kidding,” he said, and he was. Mostly. “I’ll take care of this.”

Hayley gave him a grateful look and all but sprinted away, going around the corner and presumably hiding curled up in a ball in her office. Patrick did feel bad for her. Dealing with The Worst Patron in the World was hard enough for him, let alone a brand new librarian fresh out of her MLIS program. 

“How may I help you?” he asked, as diplomatically as possible, and Pete Fucking Wentz offered him the most shiteating, almost mocking grin Patrick had ever seen, and Patrick’s manager was Brendon Urie. Pete Fucking Wentz lifted the book he was holding up by way of explanation. 

“You ought to keep the porn locked up,” he said, frowning at Patrick, but the mirth in his eyes was unmistakable. He was, as usual, teasing Patrick. Patrick was not here for it, not today.

“Okay, one,” Patrick began, ticking off each point on his fingers as he went. “That’s erotica and it’s literature. Two, we do not _censor_ things in the _public_ library. Information is readily and freely available to anyone. And three, do you have an _actual_ question, or are you here to bother me?”

“I can’t have both?” Pete asked. He was the _worst_. “You’re not very happy to see me.”

“I wonder why,” Patrick said dryly. “Couldn’t have anything to do with the comment card yesterday, could it?”

“Take it as a learning opportunity,” Pete said, smirking. Patrick tried not to grimace. He didn’t think he was very successful. “I’m just teasing you, Patrick.”

Patrick had a brief, horrifying realization that he actually _liked_ the way his name sounded in Pete’s voice and he composed a letter to his doctor in his head. 

_I’m very concerned I have a brain tumor, could I get an MRI or something?_

“Cool,” Patrick said, aiming for unaffected and missing so badly he might as well have been a Stormtrooper. “What did you need?”

Pete held up the book. If Patrick squinted, he could see, with slowly mounting horror, that it was one of Kingston Lewis’s books. _Folie a Deux_ it looked like, and Patrick resisted the urge to snatch it from Pete’s gross, annoying hands and brush it off protectively. 

He swallowed past the lump of words in his throat instead. 

“So this _erotica_,” Pete said, sarcastic emphasis on _erotica_, and Patrick knew what word Pete _wanted_ to say. “This is the guy you have coming to sully the good name of libraries?”

“Kingston Lewis is the best in the genre,” Patrick said diplomatically, instead of _fuck you, asshole_. Progress. Or something. “And we invite authors of all genres to speak at the library. Do you need me to repeat that slower?”

“No,” Pete said with a shiteating grin, dropping the book to the reference desk with a dull thud. “But I would like to dispute your claim. No way is this guy—” Pete picked the book back up, shook it, and pointed at the author's name for emphasis— “the best in the genre. Have you read him?”

It was a question that was _not_ intended to be a come on in any sort of way, and for once Pete didn’t seem to be aiming to make Patrick flustered, but he was nonetheless. He hoped to the nonexistent God above he wouldn’t start _blushing_. He cleared his throat and stood up straight for absolutely no other reason than to act natural in the most unnatural way possible. 

“I’ve experienced his words,” Patrick said haughtily, like a complete idiot, and Pete raised an eyebrow. “The man is coming to speak and I am the adult librarian. Of course I read his books.”

“I have to question your cred as a librarian,” Pete said. He looked like he was fighting laughter. Patrick prayed for Russia to hit them with a nuke. He knew it could happen any time. “If you’ve read this and still think he’s good.”

“Folie is not his best one,” Patrick said, and Pete choked on a laugh. “What? You asked.”

“I did,” Pete allowed. “So what’s his best one, then?”

Patrick pursed his lips and thought for a moment. It was--and Patrick truly hated to admit this--a good question. Which of the five books Kingston Lewis had published (so far) was his favorite?

“My favorite,” Patrick said slowly, and Pete looked _fascinated_. It was bizarre. “My favorite is _Infinity on High_ but in terms of his actual best work I would have to concede that to _From Under the Cork Tree_.”

“You have a favorite porn novel,” Pete said, and he sounded delighted. Patrick scowled. 

“See, we were having a nice moment,” he said. “And you’ve ruined it.”

“Ruining things is what I do,” Pete said. “I’ll go grab your favorite book, Patrick, and next time I see you I’ll tell you if your taste is still questionable.”

“Lucky me,” Patrick said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smalltalktorture.tumblr.com, be there or be square


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Terrific,” Patrick said, and fled back to the reference desk, knowing in his heart of hearts that Pete was definitely following him and also probably laughing at him. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly once he was safely seated behind the desk and turned his attention to a very amused looking Pete Wentz. “Wentz, Peter. How may I help you?”
> 
> Pete set the newspaper on the reference desk, spread open because of course Pete would, and rummaged in a bag Patrick hadn’t noticed at his feet. He emerged, triumphant, gesturing with a familiar blue and white book, and Patrick felt that weird wash of hot and cold all at once again. He swallowed past a dry throat as Pete laid _Infinity on High_ in front of Patrick with a lot more care than he’d handled _Folie_.
> 
> “I read it over the weekend,” Pete said. 
> 
> “Yeah?” Patrick asked hesitantly. Pete cocked his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i want to make it clear that everything that happens in this fic between patrick and a patron has definitely, 100% happened to me and you’re just gonna have to trust me on that.

“No,” Patrick said, as patiently as he could manage. He caught a glimpse of the clock. 10:12 am. The library had been open for _twelve minutes_ and Patrick was already considering quitting. It was a record, for a Monday at least. Patrick couldn’t quit. Not until Saturday. He could meet Kingston Lewis and then quit. He had to wait. “I cannot fill out the application for you. I am happy to assist you in opening the web page. But unfortunately—”

“It’s asking for an email,” the patron complained. It was possible Patrick wanted to throttle this man. “I don’t want to give them my email. It’s just another way for the government to spy on us.”

“They need your email to contact you,” Patrick said. It was remarkable that he _hadn’t_ throttled this man already. Honestly. The next time Brendon commented on his temper, Patrick was going to tell him about this conversation. In detail. 

“Can I use yours?”

Patrick took a deep breath. 

“No,” he said calmly. As calmly as he could humanly manage, that was. “I cannot give you my email to use.”

“But—”

“Jesus Christ dude, if you’re so afraid of technology go live in a cave. The nice librarian has been explaining this to you for ten minutes. I’m not a nice librarian. Leave him alone and get busy.”

Both Patrick and the patron turned to face the speaker. Patrick felt a very peculiar wave of hot and then ice cold shoot through him as none other than Pete Wentz gave the patron a very dirty look, newspaper tucked under his arm, looking at them both over the top of his sunglasses that he _of course_ was wearing inside.

The patron huffed. 

“The nerve of some people,” he muttered. “Are you going to help me or not?”

Pete’s gaze burned holes into the back of Patrick’s neck and Patrick made an executive decision. Arguing with Pete seemed massively more productive and enjoyable than standing here another minute, trying to explain technology to a boomer. He took a step back. 

“I don’t know that I can help any more than I already have,” he said, and the patron scowled. “You have to use your email to apply online and you can’t use mine. Any other questions?”

“No,” the patron snapped. “I guess not.”

“Terrific,” Patrick said, and fled back to the reference desk, knowing in his heart of hearts that Pete was definitely following him and also probably laughing at him. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly once he was safely seated behind the desk and turned his attention to a very amused looking Pete Wentz. “Wentz, Peter. How may I help you?”

Pete set the newspaper on the reference desk, spread open because of course Pete would, and rummaged in a bag Patrick hadn’t noticed at his feet. He emerged, triumphant, gesturing with a familiar blue and white book, and Patrick felt that weird wash of hot and cold all at once again. He swallowed past a dry throat as Pete laid _Infinity on High_ in front of Patrick with a lot more care than he’d handled _Folie_.

“I read it over the weekend,” Pete said. 

“Yeah?” Patrick asked hesitantly. Pete cocked his head. 

“What do you like about it?” he asked, which was not where Patrick expected Pete to go at all. Patrick frowned and Pete raised an eyebrow. Still surprised and a little suspicious, Patrick sat back in his seat, crossing his arms and staring at Pete. 

“What do I like about it?” he asked, and Pete nodded, leaning against the desk and watching Patrick intently but with a surprising lack of amusement. Like he actually did care. “Okay. Well. I appreciate that it’s gay erotica. Do you know how hard it is to get any gay erotica, let alone something decent and not for the hetero gaze?”

“I can imagine,” Pete said gravely, nodding. “What else?”

“What else?” Patrick repeated, taken aback. Pete nodded again. 

“You’re a librarian,” he said, gesturing to Patrick as if he was afraid Patrick may have somehow forgotten that fact. “You have to have more reasons than that.”

“Please,” Patrick said dryly. “Tell me what I have to have.”

“Sex, clearly,” Pete said, and Patrick flushed. Smirking, Pete prodded on. “You’re wound up so tight I’m surprised you can enjoy erotica at all. Come on. What else? You said this was your favorite.”

Patrick sighed. Choosing to ignore the sex comment, like a professional and not like he felt hot just thinking of the word _sex_ anywhere near Pete Wentz, he gave in. 

“Fine,” he said. “The main character.”

“Martin,” Pete said promptly. At Patrick’s raised eyebrow, he rolled his eyes. “I told you I read it.”

“You did,” Patrick allowed. “Okay, fine. Martin. I’ve read lots of books, okay, and I’ve never read a character as well developed and heart wrenching as Martin. Like, even non erotica. He’s just so...so _real_ and so emotionally devastating in a good way? Like, I like the plot, I love it even, but this would still be my favorite book even if the plot sucked because Martin is just so incredible.”

Pete had looked steadily more surprised the longer Patrick word vomited and by the time Patrick shut himself up, ears hot and probably red, he looked downright impressed. 

“Damn,” he said, and there was no trace of the teasing tone. “That’s surprisingly passionate.”

“Surprisingly?” Patrick asked. Pete nodded. 

“I gotta admit, I thought you were just defending it to be contrary to anything I said,” Pete said, and Patrick grinned without meaning to in the slightest. “But I think I like you having actual opinions more. Why is the other one better if this one’s your favorite?”

Patrick sighed again. 

“It was just,” he said, then started over. “It was better received. Probably because it followed the _bury your gays_ trope, which thankfully Lewis has abandoned. And it was his debut, so that’s usually the highest rated regardless, which is bullshit but I am sadly not in charge.”

“I think I’d like it better if you were in charge,” Pete said, and Patrick all but gaped. Pete gave a wry grin and picked _Infinity on High_ back up, looking at it for a long moment like he was, for once, searching for something to say. “Maybe I see your point. Maybe this isn’t just trash.”

“I honestly don’t think much literature is trash,” Patrick said honestly. “With a few notable exceptions, I just think any literature is good literature.”

Pete smiled at him, no trace of teasing at all, just a genuine smile before he looked back down at the book. 

“Maybe I’ll come with an open mind, then,” he said. “To your event.”

The _event_. For the first time in forever, Patrick had forgotten entirely that he was hosting his favorite author at his library. The nerves returned in full force and Pete gently patted Patrick’s hand. 

“It’ll go fine,” he said, reassuring, and it even sounded like he meant it. Patrick blinked up at him, a little panic making his mouth dry and his heart race. Pete patted his hand again. “I’ll try his others and come back. Sound good?”

Patrick nodded and Pete smiled at him again, making something burn a little in the pit of Patrick’s stomach. Patrick couldn’t decide if it was a good burning or not. Apparently aware that Patrick was at the limit of his ability to have a conversation, Pete walked away after looking Patrick over with a soft gaze. 

Patrick watched him go and tried to breathe, tried to make sense of what the hell just happened. He had a ...normal? Conversation? With Pete Fucking Wentz? Was that a thing? Was that even possible? Had Patrick been punched by the difficult computer patron and was now violently hallucinating before he would slip into a coma and possibly die?

None of that seemed logical but neither did the fact that he’d evidently talked to Pete for longer than a minute and hadn’t wanted to deck him. That was the strangest fact of all. 

Patrick exhaled, reaching for the newspaper Pete had abandoned and beginning to fold it up, mind still racing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smalltalktorture.tumblr.com is my home, MOM.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Um,” Patrick said intelligently. Pete raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
> 
> “Was that a question?” Pete asked. He sounded amused now. Patrick resisted attempting to melt into the floor. This carpet was new. He didn’t want to be liable for replacing it because he doubted bodily goo came out easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading and enjoying and commenting!! it means the absolute world.

“Phone for you,” Hayley said hesitantly as Patrick once again grouched out of his office. Could he possibly have one uninterrupted hour at his desk to do anything at all, or would he just be pulled in one million directions all day every day until Saturday came and he melted into a puddle of embarrassment as everything humanly possible went wrong?

Patrick thought he was only exaggerating a little.

“Central Chicago Library, this is Patrick,” he said, instead of cussing out whoever was on the other line. 

“Hello,” Smith said, crisp and short. Patrick once again stood up straight, the ridiculous urge impossible to ignore. Hayley looked at him oddly but then scooted away to give him room. Hayley was his favorite. He made a mental note to tell Brendon that Hayley was his new favorite. “It’s Spencer Smith, Kingston Lewis’s manager.”

_I know_ was what Patrick thankfully refrained from saying. Instead he nodded, then remembered that Smith couldn’t actually see him. 

“Of course,” he said, then winced. Of course. Of course _what_, Stump? “How may I help you, Mr. Smith?”

Smith gave a disapproving noise, somewhere between a “hmmpf” and a sniff but didn’t make a comment, choosing instead to forge onward.

“Will you be the librarian in charge of the event?” Smith asked. Patrick nodded _again_ and resisted the urge to punch himself. 

“I will,” he said, thankfully sounding nice and normal and not like he was three seconds from panicking. Because he wasn’t. He definitely wasn’t. For Christ’s sake, he was talking to Lewis’s _manager_, not Lewis himself, and if he fell to pieces talking to Lewis’s _manager_ he was not in any way, shape, or form going to hold it together when the author himself was in Patrick’s vicinity. 

“Kingston wants to offer a book signing,” Smith said. How he managed to sound bored every time he opened his mouth was awe-inspiring, but Patrick didn’t dwell on that. He was too busy internally freaking the fuck out because a book signing? A _book signing_? On top of a talk from a New York Times _bestselling author_? “Would you be able to accommodate that?”

Would Patrick be able to accommodate that? Would Patrick be stupid enough to say no?

“Of course,” he said, glad his voice remained warm and librarian-like, and not like a starstruck fan, because Patrick was most definitely a star struck fan. “We would be honored.”

“Great,” Smith said dryly. “I will pass it along and call you back with more details.”

Once again, Smith did not wait for a reply, just hung up the phone with a note of finality. Patrick sighed and did the same, glancing over at Hayley, who was hovering. She looked like she had a lot to say but didn’t know how to say any of it, so Patrick sighed and stepped to the side, allowing her to take her seat back. 

“I need to talk to Brendon,” he said, successfully stalling any attempts to ask him a damn thing, and turned on his heel to walk away. 

He did not, however, go to Brendon’s office. Shocker of the year. Instead, he ducked into his own office, buried his face in his hands, and screamed quietly. He had too many emotions and not enough outlets and it was either do this or go unplug the computers while people were in the middle of doing things, and screaming into his hands in his office was probably the better choice. 

Simple man with simple needs, that was Patrick. 

He straightened back up, rolled his shoulders back, and left his office again, this time intent on actually going to Brendon’s office and informing him that their event just got bigger. 

_Your event_, Brendon’s voice pointed out, like it did every time Patrick miscategorized the Kingston Lewis talk. Patrick rolled his eyes at Brendon’s voice and made the fatal mistake of crossing the main floor of the library as a shortcut instead of taking the long, secluded backroom path. 

“Excuse me,” someone said, and Patrick considered once again the benefits of quitting his job. Did he love what he did? Absolutely. Did he love dealing with patrons? Absolutely fucking _not_. 

He turned, pleasant smile haphazardly stitched over his resting bitch face, to face a man who was wearing...rubber gloves? In the library? 

Patrick roughly estimated this conversation to be a 9 on the Weird Conversation Scale Joe had come up with and hoped his expression didn’t give away his thoughts. 

“How may I help you?” he asked, instead of the obvious question. He avoided looking at said white, probably latex, surgical grade rubber gloves, choosing instead to focus on the man’s face. 

It wasn’t better. The man had a stare that could only be categorized as _creepy_ and he seemed bound and determined to stand entirely too close to Patrick for Patrick to be entirely comfortable with this situation. Patrick tried to hold his breath. 

“There are too many kids in there,” Latex Gloves Man said, gesturing with one accusing finger at the Children’s Area. Patrick stared. Latex Gloves Man seemed to misinterpret Patrick’s stare and gestured again. “Children. In there. Being loud. Do you see them?”

“Yes,” Patrick said slowly, taking a slow step back. “That is the Children’s Area. Where the children’s books are. Hence, it would make sense for children to be in there.”

“There’s too many,” Latex Gloves Man said. “It’s against the fire code.”

There were three children in the Children’s Area. Patrick counted them, then counted them again, then took a deep breath. 

“Why don’t I show you to my manager’s office,” he suggested, crossing his fingers behind his back. “And you can relay your concerns to him?”

“Fine,” Latex Gloves Man snapped, hands on his hips, eyes narrowed. “I expect something to be done about this.”

“I will leave that in the exceedingly capable hands of my manager,” Patrick said, with so much false warmth in his voice it would melt a snowman. “Right this way, sir.”

He apologized to Brendon profusely in his head the entire time he crossed the floor, right up until he knocked on Brendon’s office door and glanced through his window to see Brendon with his feet up on his desk, throwing a stress ball up in the air and catching it over and over again. 

“I’m in a meeting,” the lying liar shouted. Patrick opened the door anyway. “I _said_\--”

“This gentleman would like to speak to the manager,” Patrick said, and Brendon looked like he wanted to commit homicide right there where anyone could see. Patrick could relate. “Goodbye.”

He turned and walked away without another word, leaving Latex Gloves Man and Brendon to conduct what Patrick was sure was about to be a very annoying conversation, but that was why Brendon got paid the big bucks. He could go back to doing approximately nothing once he was done. Patrick smirked. 

“That was mean.”

Patrick’s smirk slid right off his face. He turned, preparing one million different caustic responses, but all the words in the English language, along with all the handful of words he knew in any other language _and_ some he didn’t even know but had heard once dissolved in his brain like acid on...on...something gross, or something. He tried not to gape.

“I’m sorry,” he said, brain on autopilot and eyes on the oh-so-slight bulge of arm muscle Patrick could see poking out of the truly heinous and should-be-disqualifying Hawaiian print shirt Pete Fucking Wentz was wearing. “What?”

Pete Fucking Wentz looked Patrick up and down with a critical expression over the top of his hipster sunglasses that had obviously been some sort of giveaway based on the ugly branding on the side. Pete Fucking Wentz snapped his gum in the exact way Patrick hated before speaking again, sliding off the ugly branded sunglasses and sticking them in the pocket of the unfortunate Hawaiian shirt, and there was so much happening in front of him that Patrick should be forgiven for not being as caustic as he normally was to the World’s Worst Patron.

“You okay?” Pete asked, sounding genuinely concerned, and Patrick hoped he wasn’t gaping like a fish but figured it was probably a lost cause. 

“Um,” Patrick said intelligently. Pete raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Was that a question?” Pete asked. He sounded amused now. Patrick resisted attempting to melt into the floor. This carpet was new. He didn’t want to be liable for replacing it because he doubted bodily goo came out easy. 

“No,” Patrick said, sounding miraculously normal. “Do you, like, have a job?”

“A job?” Pete asked, as if he was unfamiliar with the entire concept. Patrick swallowed and nodded, grabbing onto the tail end of that interrogation for dear life. “Why?”

“Because you’re always in here,” Patrick said. “At weird times. When people usually work.”

“I’m self employed,” Pete said. 

“Of course you are,” Patrick said. “Why am I not surprised?”

“I’m taking that as a complement,” Pete said. Patrick scowled. It was definitely not a complement. “Are you saying you don’t want me in the library?”

“Libraries are for everyone,” Patrick said, through gritted teeth, and Pete gave him a shiteating grin. Patrick resisted groaning. “I was just curious.”

“Were you now?” Pete asked, looking positively delighted. “A cute library boy, curious about me?”

“I’m a librarian, not a ‘library boy’,” Patrick said, making a face, before his brain caught up and he froze, staring at Pete’s entirely too smug expression. “What did you say?”

“I can’t remember,” Pete blatantly, blatantly lied, smirk still firmly in place. “I have a question.”

“About?” Patrick asked faintly. 

“Your event,” Pete said, pointing unnecessarily at the poster on the wall behind the information desk. Patrick didn’t need the poster to know just what event Pete meant. “Will there be refreshments?”

“Refreshments?” Patrick asked. “What is this, a church social?”

“Is that a yes, or…”

“It’s not in the budget,” Patrick said. “Also we don’t want to give any potential protestors ammunition. Literally.”

“Protestors?” Pete asked in interest. “People are protesting the porn writer?”

“_Erotica_,” Patrick stressed. “Please don’t call it porn.”

“Whatever,” Pete said. “Who’s protesting?”

“The Chicago chapter of One Million Moms,” Patrick said. Pete laughed. 

“I heard that organization has, like, one hundred thousand moms total,” he said. “What’s their issue? It says ‘adults only’.”

“Some people aren’t happy unless they can control the sexual decisions of others,” Patrick said. Pete nodded gravely, then split into a smirk. 

“Bet you anything they wouldn’t be protesting if the books were het,” he said, and, against his will (Patrick wanted to make it perfectly clear that this was entirely against his will) Patrick laughed. 

“Fool's bet,” he said. “But yeah. No refreshments.”

“Do you think they’ll actually show up?” Pete asked, looking positively thrilled. Patrick narrowed his eyes. 

“Why?” he asked. “I am actually, literally begging you to not start dramatic shit. I got enough blowback planning this event.”

“Who, me?” Pete said, in a tone of voice that suggested yes, him. “I would never.”

Sure.

“Sure,” Patrick said, then pointed at him. “I will kill you.”

“Pretty sure threatening murder is against library policy,” Pete said. “Don’t make me fill out another comment card.”

“Peter Wentz,” Patrick began, and Pete smirked. 

“I’m messing with you,” he said, somewhat condescending but mostly teasing. “I won’t cause a scene at your event, I promise.”

“Good,” Patrick said, for lack of anything else to say. Pete winked and _saluted_, like some kind of soldier, and Patrick tried hard not to roll his eyes. He was marginally successful. 

“I’ll let you get back to passing patrons to your manager,” Pete said. “But if you need me, here’s my card.”

“Why would I need you?” Patrick asked, even as he took the business card Pete brandished in his direction. “Hello? Why would I need you?”

“You never know what the future holds,” Pete intoned, and began walking away. Patrick stared after him, business card in his hand, completely and utterly lost for words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> latex gloves man is real and he haunts my dreams. still at smalltalktorture on tumblr.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t understand why you think he’s funny,” Patrick said. He shook the card in Joe’s direction, as if Joe had forgotten about it in the time since it had left his hands. Patrick was fairly sure Joe had a firm grasp on object permanence, but he supposed he could be wrong. “Nothing on here warrants it.”
> 
> “He doesn’t even have his name,” Joe pointed out. “It just says ‘P.L.K.W.’. What kind of person puts their initials on a business card instead of their name?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no i didn’t almost forget about posting day and i’ll thank you for not insinuating it. 
> 
> pete is having way too much fun with patrick. i wonder if THAT will backfire.

Patrick stared at the business card.

It did nothing, laying with all it’s faux innocence on the reference desk. Patrick narrowed his eyes. 

“You aren’t a pyrotechnic,” Joe pointed out. “You can’t set it on fire with your mind.”

“You’re thinking of pyrokinesis,” Patrick said, and considered. It wasn’t a bad idea, in all honesty. Unfortunately, Patrick didn’t seem to possess awesome mind powers that could set things on fire, as evidenced by the business card and Pete Wentz’s continued existence. “What are the chances this will kill me?”

“The small square piece of paper?” Joe asked in disbelief. “Uh next to nothing. Why do you hate it so much?”

“It’s Pete Wentz’s,” Patrick muttered. Joe lit up like Patrick had told him he could tell two patrons to fuck off just this once. “Do not.”

“Do not what?” Joe said, and grabbed the card up from the desk. He looked down at it eagerly, then cackled. “Oh my God, he’s funny! Patrick, take the stick out of your ass and date him.”

“Date him?” Patrick demanded, making an unsuccessful grab for the card. “He’s a patron.”

“Dude,” Joe said witheringly. “He gave you his number.”

“His business card.”

“With his _phone number_.”

“That is _irrelevant_,” Patrick said firmly, finally succeeding in snatching the card away from Joe and his grubby circulation specialist’s hands. 

Patrick did not have a librarian complex. He did _not_.

“Killjoy,” Joe muttered. Patrick very charitably ignored him. 

“I don’t understand why you think he’s funny,” Patrick said. He shook the card in Joe’s direction, as if Joe had forgotten about it in the time since it had left his hands. Patrick was fairly sure Joe had a firm grasp on object permanence, but he supposed he could be wrong. “Nothing on here warrants it.”

“He doesn’t even have his name,” Joe pointed out. “It just says ‘P.L.K.W.’. What kind of person puts their initials on a business card instead of their name?”

“Why is that _funny_?” Patrick asked. “Seems a little ‘serial killer’ to me.”

“Dude, you need to get out more,” Joe said firmly, then scrambled to a fully seated position, lacing his hands in front of him on the circulation desk, back ramrod straight. 

Patrick smirked. 

“Hi, Andy,” he said, without turning around. “Joe was just showing me what an excellent job he’s doing here on the circulation desk.”

“Whatever he’s doing, it’s wrong,” Andy said dryly. Patrick laughed and turned around, leaving Joe still sitting perfectly still, eyes straight ahead. Andy looked amused, arms crossed in front of him. He was wearing what one would _expect_ a circulation supervisor to wear: jeans and a t-shirt that said _no one knows i’m a nerd_. Also known as _not_a button up, tie, and vest, _ Joe_.

“What’s up?” Patrick asked, leaning against the circulation desk like he owned the place. Andy’s amused look grew. 

“Brendon is looking for you,” he said, and Patrick winced. 

“Great,” he said, standing back up and slipping the ‘business card’ into the back pocket of his jeans. He leaned over and deliberately untied Joe’s tie before patting him on the head and nodding at Andy. “It was nice knowing you.”

“I don’t think he’ll kill you,” Andy said. “But, based on his expression, he might ‘seriously maim’ you. I hope you have sick time saved up.”

“Thanks,” Patrick said, and walked away, across the floor of the library and towards his stupid manager’s office. The door was closed, a stupid, self-aware comic about libraries and free information taped crookedly on the door just below his nameplate: _Brendon Urie, Branch Manager._ Below that he had a whiteboard tacked up, with _The manager is IN!_ written on it in Brendon’s near-illegible scrawl. 

Patrick took a deep breath, braced himself, and knocked. 

“What?” Brendon shouted through the door, sounding annoyed. Stellar customer service on that one. 

“You asked to see me, my lord,” Patrick called back. Brendon made an unintelligible noise and Patrick took that as an invitation to come in, so he did. Brendon glared at him from behind his frankly unnecessarily wide oak desk, looking like the third understudy to the world’s worst Bond villain, and Patrick curtsied. 

“Close the door,” Brendon said, and Patrick did before dropping into the seat opposite Brendon and surveying him critically. “What?”

Patrick shrugged. 

“You called _me_,” he pointed out. “You look tired. You okay?”

“Fantastic,” Brendon said shortly. “I love getting divorced.”

Patrick winced. 

“It’s really happening?” he asked softly, and Brendon grit his teeth and nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Not why I called you in,” Brendon said. Patrick let it go. “A few things.”

“Yay,” Patrick said. 

“One,” Brendon began, as if Patrick hadn’t said a word. “Don’t shove the weird customers onto me.”

“Why was he wearing latex gloves?” Patrick asked. Brendon ignored him. 

“Two,” he continued. “For your little event. There will be press there, which is the good news. The bad news is that there officially will be a protest, which is why the press will be there.”

“Do I need to call it off?” Patrick asked, heart sinking. Brendon emphatically shook his head. 

“It’s not the first time a library has been protested,” he said. “We’re not in the business of censorship. I just wanted you to be _aware_ so you have a plan in place in case things get out of hand.”

“Isn’t that your job?” Patrick asked.

“I’m delegating,” Brendon said. “What’s this I hear about you asking a patron for his number?”

“I didn’t _ask_,” Patrick said, a little outraged. “He just gave me his business card.”

“With his phone number,” Brendon said, evidently undeterred. Patrick scowled. 

“You’ve been talking to Joe,” he accused. Brendon smirked--a faint impression of his usual smirk, but still a smirk--and Patrick narrowed his eyes.

“Call the police,” Brendon said. “I had the audacity to talk to members of my own staff. The horror. The outrage.”

“About _me_,” Patrick stressed. “You’ve been talking about me.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Brendon said, the liar. “Now shoo, I want to know what your backup plan is by the end of the day.”

“The event’s in four days,” Patrick protested, standing. 

“Okay,” Brendon said. “Good point. I want it by lunch.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Patrick began, and Brendon stood and began pushing Patrick towards the door. “Hello?”

“Bye,” Brendon said, and shut the door once all of Patrick’s limbs were out of the way. Patrick took some quality time to glare at Brendon’s nameplate, whiteboard, and stupid comic before huffing and turning on his heel, marching back towards his office with no intention of stopping anywhere. 

So, of course, he got stopped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still at smalltalktorture.tumblr.com if grad school doesn’t kill me before i log back on.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh no,” Patrick said, stopping dead. “It’s you.”
> 
> “Uh, ouch?” Pete said, raising an eyebrow. Patrick felt his brain restart as he stood there like an idiot, gaping and searching for literally anything appropriate he could say. 
> 
> He found nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have the plague so sorry for any typos. thanks for continuing to read and comment! i love you all.

“Oh no,” Patrick said, stopping dead. “It’s you.”

“Uh, ouch?” Pete said, raising an eyebrow. Patrick felt his brain restart as he stood there like an idiot, gaping and searching for literally anything appropriate he could say. 

He found nothing.

“You okay?” Pete asked, as Patrick continued to do his best impression of a statue. Patrick gave himself a little shake, blinking the shock out of his eyes and forcibly reaching into his brain to yank a plausible sentence out.

“Fine,” Patrick said, sounding completely normal. If he sounded slightly strangled and breathless normally, that was. “Sorry. Just had a conversation with my boss.”

“Good or bad?” Pete asked. Patrick shrugged. 

“A bit of both, I guess,” he said. “A protest is confirmed for my event, and the press will be there.”

“How is that a bit of both?” Pete said, frowning. “Won’t protestors kind of kill your vibe?”

“Kill my vibe?” Patrick asked, incredulous, then switched tracks. “Nevermind. No. Well, yes and no.”

“Glad you’re such a good communicator,” Pete said, deadpan. “It’s what I love in a librarian.”

“Look,” Patrick said, gesturing uselessly. “The press are just gonna see a library being censored. We’re going to look like beacons of the First Amendment. That part is fine. I just don’t want any people who are coming to the event to actually enjoy it to be harassed. That’s all.”

“What about the author?” Pete asked. Patrick frowned. 

“Of course I don’t want him harassed, either,” he said slowly. “I figured that went without saying.”

“You never know,” Pete said, somewhat ominously. Patrick frowned. 

“I never know what?” he asked. “I’m a librarian. I know everything.”

“You are no fun at all,” Pete said, fake-pouting. “My humor is wasted on you. I should find a librarian who appreciates my jokes.”

“Good luck,” Patrick said, and Pete actually grinned. Patrick crossed his arms defensively. He wasn’t sure why. It just felt like the right thing to do. Or something. “Why are you here?”

“It’s a free country,” Pete said promptly. Patrick rolled his eyes. “What? I can’t just come to the library because I enjoy it?”

“Have you checked out a book, ever?” Patrick asked. Pete raised an eyebrow. “Besides the erotica section, which you only read to mess with me.”

“I am _offended_,” Pete said, sounding righteously but also dramatically outraged. “I read books all the time. I read _those_ books in order to have an intellectual conversation with you.”

“Really?” Patrick asked. “And when were you planning to have this conversation?”

“You’re a jackass,” Pete complained, but he was clearly fighting a grin. “I’ll have you know I _enjoyed_ the two porno books I read.”

“Did you now,” Patrick asked, doing his best to sound disinterested. He didn’t think it worked. At least not based on Pete’s increasingly amused expression. “Did you pick up on the fact that they’re not called _porno books_, or do you need another reminder?”

“Are you giving me the reminder?” Pete asked. “Because if so, I’m gonna need frequent reminders. Possibly every day. I’ve got a bad memory.”

Brendon, evidently exiting his office for one reason or another, stopped dead several feet away from Patrick and Pete, looking from one to the other with a raised eyebrow. Patrick couldn’t help the flush that crossed his face, and by the time his _boss_ took in Pete’s satisfied expression, Patrick was sincerely worried about his job. 

“Oh, God,” Brendon groaned. “Get a room.”

“What?” Patrick asked, voice coming out strangled and high-pitched because Pete was a _patron_ and Patrick one hundred percent, absolutely, _unequivocally_ did _not_ think about _getting a room_ with a _patron_.

Much.

Brendon, however, did not stick around to answer Patrick’s incredulous question, choosing instead to throw his hands in the air in defeat and walk away, back towards the way he came, like he’d decided whatever he’d left the safe, Pete and Patrick-free confines of his office for definitely wasn’t worth it. Patrick watched him go with a sort of low grade panic, being brought back to reality only by Pete’s gentle poke of his arm. 

“That was horrible,” Patrick said, voice still weird. He cleared his throat and deliberately unfolded his arms. Pete still looked amused. Goddamn him. He looked _good_ when he looked like that. Pete shrugged one shoulder, sticking his hands casually in his pockets and rocking a little on his feet. Patrick felt his mouth go dry. 

“I’m sure he’s seen worse,” Pete said, and his face was amused but his voice was cautious. He glanced around. “Am I--am I stopping you from working? I’m sorry if I am.”

Patrick forgot all about his embarrassment, just stared at Pete incredulously, stopping just short of gaping at him like a fish. One eyebrow raised so high it damn near disappeared into his hair, he leaned back and surveyed Pete like he was afraid he’d been replaced by the bodysnatchers between blinks. 

“When have you ever been worried about interrupting me working?” Patrick asked finally, and, to his apparently neverending surprise, Pete flushed. “To answer your question, no. I am heading to the reference desk. There is no law saying you can’t follow me.”

“Oh?” Pete said, clearly going for suave and nonchalant but missing the mark entirely. It was kind of endearing, not that Patrick would ever admit that out loud short of torture. “There isn’t?”

“I could make one up,” Patrick offered. “You’d never know the difference.”

“I do know how to use Google,” Pete scoffed, and Patrick couldn’t help the grin. 

“Excuse me,” someone said loudly, very obviously knowing they were interrupting and equally obviously not caring. Patrick blinked in surprise and schooled his expression into his neutral customer-service mask, only cracking that foundation when he’d turned to face the patron. 

“Yes?” he said shortly. “Can I help you?”

“Ouch,” Ryan drawled. “I thought we were friends.”

“Acquaintances,” Patrick corrected. “If that. My question still stands.”

“I would like to talk to my husband, please,” Ryan said coldly. Patrick resisted rolling his eyes. 

“Who’s your husband?” he asked, just to be a dick, and Ryan scowled. 

“Where is he?” he asked. “I know he’s here, his car is in the parking lot.”

“Wow, stalker much?” Patrick asked, raising an eyebrow. “What are you, his keeper? Weren’t you the one who asked for the divorce?”

“Didn’t know it was any of your business,” Ryan snapped. His eyes were dark, angry. Patrick narrowed his own. “Are you gonna go get him, or…”

“Nah,” Patrick said, shrugging. “You have a cell phone.”

“He’s dodging my calls,” Ryan said. Patrick snorted. 

“That should tell you everything you need to know, then, shouldn’t it?” he asked. “Would you like to check out a book or do you have a reference question? Because I have work to do.”

“Is he in his office?” Ryan asked. 

“He’s not in right now,” Patrick said. “And before you ask, I won’t be sharing his schedule with you. We here at the Central Chicago Public Library take both patron and staff privacy very seriously.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” Ryan spat. “He’s expecting me.”

“No, he isn’t,” Patrick said. “If you’re not interested in anything else, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave. You’re upsetting the patrons.”

“No, I’m not,” Ryan said. 

“I’m very upset, actually,” Pete offered, and Patrick fought a smirk even as Ryan glowered at Pete. “And Patrick was helping me with something and you interrupted so if you don’t mind—”

“—I mind,” Ryan objected.

“—we have business to attend to,” Pete finished, like Ryan hadn’t said anything. “Isn’t that right, Patrick?”

“Very right,” Patrick said. He met Pete’s eyes, hoping the admiration and silent thanks came through loud and clear, and Ryan huffed in annoyance before turning on his heel and storming towards the door. Patrick watched him go with a deep-seated satisfaction before taking the five steps to the reference desk, reaching for the phone, and dialing Brendon’s extension. 

“What,” Brendon complained. Patrick could picture him perfectly, hunched over his desk, dreaming of a joint or perhaps a drink, and he felt a little bad for him. 

“You had a visitor,” Patrick said, as gently as possible. 

“I’m not here,” Brendon said instantly.

“That’s what I told him,” Patrick said. “Among other things.”

Brendon snorted, though it was tired and worn. He let out a long, slow sigh, the line crackling with static, before he spoke again.

“Thanks.” His voice was genuine, more so than Patrick usually heard it be, and Patrick nodded even though his boss couldn’t see him. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Any time.”

Brendon hung up on him after that, probably because he’d shown as much vulnerability as he wanted to show his staff currently, and Patrick put the phone down and looked back up at Pete, who was watching Patrick with open curiosity on his face. Patrick sighed through the realization that he’d have to offer up some kind of explanation for that, because God knew he didn’t want Brendon to have to do it. 

“That was my boss’s soon-to-be-ex husband,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning his hip on the desk as casually as possible. He didn’t think it worked, at least not based on Pete’s expression, which was calculating and shrewd. Unfortunately. “He’s an asshole.”

“Worked that part out, actually,” Pete said, sounding somewhat amused. “I will say it was kind of awesome watching you be rude as hell to him. Kind of hot.”

Patrick felt his face burn hot and he resisted the urge to run to the bathroom and stick his head under the faucet, because he was _reasonably_ sure spontaneous combustion wasn’t, like, a real thing, so his face couldn’t _literally_ be on fire. Look, he had a Masters and that meant he was _smart_, okay?

Pete was smirking, the goddamn asshole, and had the audacity to wink at Patrick as he scrambled for a word or two or perhaps even a sentence to say in response to Pete’s very obvious and blatant attempt at flirting. Unfortunately, his brain was overheating and in the process of restarting, featuring the Apple boot-up noise and everything, so his language facilities were very much offline, which meant he mostly just kind of gaped uselessly at Pete’s amused face. 

“Well,” Pete said, after a solid few minutes of Patrick’s complete and utter idiotic silence. “I have to go annoy other people. I’ll see you later, yeah?”

“Um,” Patrick said. Pete grinned. 

“Okay,” he said, which was quite presumptuous of him considering all Patrick had said was _um_. He stuck his hands in his pockets, offered Patrick another wink, and strolled towards the main doors, hips swaying so much he _had_ to be doing it on purpose, and--was he _whistling_?

Patrick gave up on trying to make sense of Pete Wentz at all, just forced his limbs to cooperate and sat heavily at the reference desk, staring into nothing and wondering how, precisely, his life had come to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smalltalktorture.tumblr.com is my home MOM


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hgnk,” Patrick said. Pete frowned. 
> 
> “Are you dying?” he asked suspiciously. 
> 
> “Hgnk,” Patrick replied. Pete looked concerned. 
> 
> “I take that as a yes,” he said, frowning. “What’s going on?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi all! thank you for your patience as i got through the holidays. the holiday challenge, my family, and pneumonia took me out for a couple weeks. in order to say sorry, may i present an update one day early? i love you all.

Patrick’s sinuses were trying to kill him, he was sure of it. He sniffed halfheartedly, wincing at the gross gurgling noise that it resulted in and debating the merits of becoming a Canadian citizen in order to access healthcare.

He’d just finished picking what airline he’d use--Southwest, they had the cheapest seats--and was debating about the weather when someone cleared their throat from behind him and he realized he’d been standing stock still in front of the ‘Cough, Cold, and Flu’ medicines for the past twenty minutes, not choosing a single one. The issue was he didn’t have a cough, his sinuses were just killing him, and he would not do a sinus rinse if you _paid_ him which was probably part of the problem and by the time he’d come to _that_conclusion, whoever had cleared their throat at him to get him to move groaned and walked away.

Well, problem solved. 

Dayquil was out, he didn’t need all that, he just needed his face to feel less stuffed with cotton and glue and maybe for his ears to stop ringing. And also to feel less exhausted but he wasn’t sure there was a pill for that. After another long, listless moment of staring at the frankly obscene number of cold remedies he gave up and grabbed the generic ‘mucus control’ medicine and turned to leave. 

“Hey,” Pete said, and, once again, Patrick’s brain restarted. He stared at Pete for a long moment before blinking stars out of his eyes--it was _just the illness_, damnit-- and clearing his throat.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, a little dumbly, and Pete raised an eyebrow. 

“Here?” Pete asked slowly, gesturing around them like Patrick had somehow forgotten where he was. “In a Walgreens? Many people shop at Walgreens, Patrick. I am here for allergy meds. This is a drugstore. I thought librarians knew everything.”

“Hgnk,” Patrick said. Pete frowned. 

“Are you dying?” he asked suspiciously. 

“Hgnk,” Patrick replied. Pete looked concerned. 

“I take that as a yes,” he said, frowning. “What’s going on?”

“Sick,” Patrick said, then gestured at his basket. “Medicine.”

“I see,” Pete said. “Want to try using more than one word at a time?”

“No,” Patrick said petulantly. “Bye.”

“Are you okay?” Pete asked. “Like, for real.”

“I’ll live,” Patrick managed. “Just gotta medicine.”

“And rest,” Pete said. Patrick shook his head. 

“Lots of work to do,” he said emphatically. “Very busy.”

“Very busy what, giving patrons the plague?” Pete asked. Patrick smiled weakly. 

“Good idea,” he said. “Maybe patrons will ignore me and leave me alone now.”

“I think you should go home and go to bed,” Pete said. “That’s probably the safest and most healthy option. Did you drive here?”

“Driving is bad for the environment,” Patrick informed Pete. He was feeling a little lightheaded. Must have been the fever. And that’s _all_. “Public--public transportation is vital to a city’s infrastructure, Pete Wentz. _Vital._”

“Duly noted,” Pete said. He sounded almost amused. Patrick was pretty sure he should be offended. “I, however, am a horrible, horrible person and I own a car, which I conveniently drove to this very Walgreens. May I give you a ride home?”

Logical Patrick, the part of him not being seriously steamrolled by the plague, knew that this was a sincere offer of someone trying to be nice and helpful, but Plague Patrick felt his cheeks heat up and his mouth go dry even as he swayed on his feet a little. Pete, taking him _home_? Plague Patrick was very in favor of this.

“I’m sick,” Patricks said dumbly, out of sheer preservation and the strong desire to make sure he didn’t blurt out fever-induced complements or engage in risky flirtatious behavior. 

Pete nodded seriously. 

“I see that,” he said. “We’ve definitely established that. My question was if you wanted me to drive you home.”

“Do you get allergies in the summer?” was what Patrick blurted out next, followed by a frantic wish for immediate death. Pete looked confused and Patrick felt like melting through the floor. “I don’t know why I said that.”

“I’ll blame it on your plague,” Pete said. “But yes, I get summer allergies. Why, did you think I stalked you here?”

Patrick mumbled something that may or may not have been _well I’d certainly stalk you_ and hoped Pete didn’t hear it. He somehow doubted it, but to Pete’s credit, he didn’t say anything, just laid a gentle hand on Patrick’s shoulder and guided him to the front of the store. 

“Do you need anything else?” he asked, and Patrick looked down at his basket like he’d never seen it before in his life. 

“What?” he asked. He was really making a solid impression on Pete so far, a completely stellar job, no note whatsoever. He swayed as he walked again. 

“I’ll take that as a no,” Pete replied, and the bastard still sounded amused. And hot. Hotly amused. But mostly amused. The point was, Pete was hot and Patrick thought it was practically his civic duty to recognize that fact. He vaguely remembered a time where Pete Wentz’s mere presence made Patrick want to rip all his hair out, and then rip all the hair off Pete’s head as well, but for the past few days, those desires had mostly been replaced by the desire to rip Pete’s clothes off, instead. 

“Thanks,” Pete said, and he was shaking with laughter. Patrick blinked, suddenly horrified. Was--was all that _not_ actually an internal monologue? Because if he’d just spent the past minute or so leaning heavily against Pete and waxing rhapsodic about how hot he was, Patrick was going to quit his job and move to Antarctica. “I’m flattered.”

“Kill me,” Patrick whispered, face absolutely on fire. The sweeping hot embarrassment only grew as he fought with his wallet only to have Pete step in and _pay for the medicine himself_. Seriously, God, any fucking time would be good to send a lightning bolt down and smite Patrick on the spot. There was no recovering from this. Patrick was never going to recover from this, he was going to spend the rest of his library career hiding in his office before fleeing as soon as he could figure out exactly how he would move to Antarctica. 

It felt like Patrick blinked and Pete had him sitting in the front seat, the walk from the door of the Walgreens to the car completely blank in Patrick’s mind, the only memory was the leftover heat from the summer sun still on his clothes. Patrick looked down at himself, wondering if he was even _real_, and in the endless few minutes it took him to decide that yes, he was pretty sure this was a real human body his brain was piloting, Pete had gotten into the driver’s seat and started the car. 

“Self employed?” Patrick asked, because the plague had apparently absolutely decimated his brain-to-mouth filter. Pete flushed a little. It was kind of cute. God, Patrick hoped he didn’t say that out loud. Knowing the way his life was currently going, he probably had. He hoped this plague would kill him. 

“Yep,” Pete said, shooting Patrick a sideways gaze that he’d usually be able to read pretty well when he wasn’t dying. Pete signaled and turned out of the parking lot. “Where do you live?”

Pete was _dodging the question_ and if Patrick could gather his thoughts enough he would definitely call him out on it. Unfortunately, he couldn’t.

“Um,” he said intelligently, trying to concentrate. Pete flipped on the A/C. Wow, did Patrick look like he was dying that much? “East Washington.”

“Okay,” Pete said. He was back to sounding amused. “Is there a number?”

“Yes,” Patrick said, but failed to elaborate. Pete, if possible, looked even more amused. Patrick frowned. “I think.”

“That’s good,” Pete said. “Houses usually have numbers.”

“Yes,” Patrick agreed. “114.”

“Excellent,” Pete said. Patrick blinked, eyes suddenly impossibly heavy. Pete glanced at him again, before reaching out and gently squeezing his shoulder. “You can go to sleep. I’ll wake you up when we get there.”

“If you kidnap me, just let the library know,” Patrick said sleepily. Somewhere in his logical brain, he was realizing that Pete was a patron and perhaps Patrick shouldn’t give his address to a patron, but his logical brain was quickly shutting down in favor of the drowsiness and fatigue that was setting in.

“Of course,” Pete said, clearly stifling laughter, but before Patrick could think to hard about how nice his voice sounded or how much he’d enjoy a cuddle, he was out, plague winning this round easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don’t give your address to customers, friends.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick scowled, swiping a hand through his previously smooth hair and resolving to shower. He couldn’t smell thanks to the mucus that had made its new home in every orifice imaginable, but he envisioned, based on how sweaty he felt, that he did not smell the greatest ever. He narrowed his eyes--fuck, where did he leave his glasses? Actually, how did he get home? He remembered dragging his sorry ass to Walgreens after work yesterday but didn’t really remember how he…
> 
> His eyes caught a folded piece of paper next to his phone and under the bowl he tossed his keys into every day. He gingerly slid it out with two fingers, unfolding it and staring at it until his braincells kicked in and he remembered how to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aren’t you lucky. it’s infusion day for me tomorrow so i’ll be useless all day so HERE is my update. i hope you enjoy it. remember to savor it. i love you all.

Patrick woke up coughing like he was a three-pack-a-day smoker and had been for the past twenty years. He actually had to sit up in bed, bent over halfway, wheezing with every cough. 

Great. The very best part of the plague. He reached into the drawer of his nightstand, rummaging around blindly until his fingers touched plastic and he withdrew his inhaler, thrusting it above his head like he’d won the gold at the Plague Olympics. 

Two puffs later he was breathing slightly normally so he managed to stumble out of bed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. What day was it? Scratch that, what _year_ was it?

His kitchen was offensively bright, the sun streaming in like the chipper asshole it was, completely unaware of the slow growing headache Patrick was currently cursed with. The clock on the stove said it was 10:15, which meant he was _late, holy shit!_

He scrambled for his phone, conveniently charging on the kitchen counter, unlocking it with shaking hands and opening up the text conversation between him and _Branch Manager, sir_

_ **Holy s*** I’m sorry I overslept I’ll be there ASAP** _

He tossed the phone down and stumbled back to his bedroom, banging his knee on his dresser and his elbow on the doorframe before yanking out the closest approximation of work attire he had and throwing it on his bed. He raced to his bathroom--stubbing his toe on the carpet, of course--and hastily brushed the dead animal taste out of his mouth, finger combing his hair into some semblance of order before rushing back to the kitchen to see if Brendon had replied. 

_ **are you high** _

Patrick frowned, racing mind grinding to a halt then and there, looking quizzically at the screen of his phone like it could make three words make more sense. He hesitantly typed out a reply. 

_ **No?** _

Two seconds later and Brendon’s reply rolled in. 

_ **its fuckin wednesday my dude you start at noon what is wrong with you** _

Fuck. 

Relief hit Patrick much like he imagined a runaway train might hit him and he all but sagged against the kitchen counter, sleep shirt riding up a little as he exhaled. Fuck. He had time. He hadn’t actually ruined his perfect attendance for this job. 

Brendon didn’t let the relief last. 

_ **why did you oversleep i thought you were programmed to wake up on time every day** _

Patrick scowled, swiping a hand through his previously smooth hair and resolving to shower. He couldn’t smell thanks to the mucus that had made its new home in every orifice imaginable, but he envisioned, based on how sweaty he felt, that he did not smell the greatest ever. He narrowed his eyes--fuck, where did he leave his glasses? Actually, how did he get home? He remembered dragging his sorry ass to Walgreens after work yesterday but didn’t really remember how he…

His eyes caught a folded piece of paper next to his phone and under the bowl he tossed his keys into every day. He gingerly slid it out with two fingers, unfolding it and staring at it until his braincells kicked in and he remembered how to read. 

_Hey Patrick--_

_Don’t worry, I didn’t stay like a creep. Just dumped you in bed and left. Though I will say you look adorable all knocked out like that. No creepiness intended._

_I hope you feel better. If, upon waking up, you feel slightly less like dying, I’ll be at the Blue Moon downtown and I’ll buy you soup._

_Pete._

Then, underneath, as if tacked on as an afterthought--

_**Only** if you feel better._

_Don’t test me._

Patrick felt hot and cold all over and he was pretty sure it wasn’t just the fever. He swayed a little on his feet before unplugging his phone and wandering on shaking legs over to the couch and sinking down, note clutched in one hand and phone in the other, text from Brendon still open.

Belatedly, despite the echo chamber his mind had become, he realized he should probably reply to his boss, so he did his best to text one-handed, still uselessly clinging to Pete’s note for zero reason. 

_ **I have a little cold or something. I’m fine. ** _

He stared almost unseeingly at the note, reading it over and over like it would spring Pete right out of the ink, fully formed and gorgeous and--

The buzzing of his phone jerked Patrick out of the daydream he was dangerously close to falling into. He flushed hard, looking around his empty living room like the NSA was about to bust out of the walls and shake him down for his darkest thoughts. 

He had a lot of those. 

_ **u don’t get sick. i refuse to believe it’s a little cold. ur probably dying. dont you dare come in today.** _

Patrick groaned. It was approximately the same sound as a lawnmower hitting several large rocks. 

_ ** I’m fine, I’ll be in at noon.** _

He hit send and closed his eyes. Just for a minute. Just for a second, really, he just had a big adrenaline rush, it was normal to need a second to calm--to rest--

His phone very rudely woke him up from where he was _just_ resting his eyes and he glared blearily down at the screen, with the offending text helpfully open and ready to read. 

_ **you didn’t even correct my grammar. you’re sick. stay the fuck home. i’m turning off my phone, if i see you in my branch i am FIRING you. don’t try me bitch. ** _

_**Language**_ Patrick replied, just to be a dick, but several minutes of staring expectantly at his phone made it obvious that Brendon really had either turned it off or was ignoring him. 

He sighed. Well, a day off wasn’t _terrible_ especially when he sort of felt a little off and he was supposed to work until nine. Resting was probably alright. Besides, he could probably work from home, anyway, there was a bunch of stuff he could do from his laptop. 

He looked down at the note he still clutched in his hand. The Blue Moon downtown. Pete hadn’t given a time or anything, but Patrick assumed noon. He could totally rest his eyes for like twenty minutes or something. Totally. 

\---

To Patrick’s neverending surprise, he did feel more human when he woke up--at _three in the afternoon_, what the _fuck_. He only knew it was three in the afternoon because he was awoken from his ‘resting of the eyes’ by a knock at the door, and he’d squinted at his phone before hauling his ass up and stumbling down the hall with the grace of a college kid three kegs in on Spring Break.

“H’lo,” he said, swinging open the door. He immediately felt like dying on the spot, acutely aware of his wrinkled pajamas and likely mess of hair, and he hadn’t shaved or really done anything to make himself look like a real human being, so he was standing at his open door doing his best impression of a divorced alcoholic father of five in front of none other than Pete fucking Wentz. 

“You look bad,” Pete said, and Patrick wanted to die all over again. He blinked at Pete as he searched his brain for an answer, but after several long seconds Pete took pity on him. “I brought you soup.”

“Why?” Patrick blurted out, and immediately winced. Apparently his brain-to-mouth filter was not fully online yet. To his credit, Pete didn’t look offended. 

“Because,” he said seriously, extending a styrofoam bowl like it was a holy object he’d spend years crusading for. “You’re worth it.”

Patrick looked from the bowl to Pete as he struggled to form a coherent thought. Pete waited patiently, watching Patrick search for words until he finally spoke. 

“What?” he said, really proving he’d earned that MLIS. Pete’s lips quirked and Patrick tried to shake the stupid out of himself. He didn’t think it was particularly successful. “I mean. Thanks.”

“You are quite welcome,” Pete said solemnly. Patrick took the offered bowl for lack of anything else to do, and hovered in the doorway, staring at Pete like he was a quite vivid hallucination. Pete nodded at the bowl. “Eat that. Drink water. You should feel better in the morning.”

“Oh,” Patrick said stupidly. Pete winked. 

“And if you do,” he said patiently. “And you wind up at work, I just might bother you there.”

“Oh,” Patrick said again. Pete gave him a cheeky grin before stepping off Patrick’s porch, twirling his keys around his finger as he headed for the car parked in Patrick’s driveway. His car, Patrick assumed. It was nondescript, a black Camry, and as Patrick watched Pete drive off, he thought with a little hysteria that Pete was bothering Patrick less and less, and, worse, Patrick might actually be liking this idiot. 

Unable to cope with that, Patrick stepped back into his house and shut the door, mind whirling.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey,” Joe said, behind a wall of books that he set down on the circulation desk. He huffed out a breath, straightening his tie, and leaned his elbow on the stack in a clear attempt at coolness he would never actually have. “Feeling better?”
> 
> “Yeah,” Patrick said. “Thanks. Though I nearly died in Walgreens after work Tuesday.”
> 
> “Really?” Joe said with interest, plopping down in the seat and beginning to check in the stack of books. “How did you escape?”
> 
> “Uh,” Patrick said, heroically refraining from blurting out _oh Pete drove me home and also brought me soup and I’m pretty sure I’d suck his dick if he asked_. “I don’t know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have dragged myself out of the depths of plague hell to present this to you. i hope you like it. if you’re a filthy american like me, enjoy your three day weekend. if not, enjoy your healthcare. i love y’all.

Patrick felt approximately eighty percent more human when he woke up Thursday morning. Most of him was pretty sure it was a twenty four hour flu and thus, was working its way out of his system, but the traitorous part of his mind that whined dumb kid’s rhymes about crushes told him, with unmitigated glee, that it was all the soup Pete had brought him, as if that was magic or something. 

Patrick pulled on his cardigan and told that part of him to shut the fuck up, please, before heading to work with a newfound determination. It was Thursday. He had, at best, two days to finalize everything for Saturday’s Big Event (trademark) and losing Wednesday, although _probably_ necessary, did not help his workload. 

“Good morning,” he said, as Brendon assessed him with an almost elegantly raised eyebrow. Patrick tried not to squirm under Brendon’s admittedly well-practiced ‘Manager Stare’, before Brendon rolled his eyes and unlocked the money drawer at the circulation desk pointedly. 

“You look better,” he said haughtily, pulling out the money and beginning to count it in that uncomfortable way he counted the money. That was, counting while holding a conversation and always having the correct total. It was unnerving. “Glad you’re back.”

“What have I done?” Patrick asked. His voice still sounded a little thick and he was blowing his nose more frequently than he’d like, but he honestly was much, much better. Still, Brendon was treating him like he’d played hooky for a day, something so absurd Patrick didn’t think he was physically capable of doing it. He was an adult. He could just use a vacation day. If he ever did. 

Brendon sniffed, putting the money back and closing the drawer with his hip, folding his arms across his outrageous _suns out, guns out_ t-shirt he was wearing under the world’s worst lavender hoodie. Patrick resisted the urge to remind Brendon that he was twenty nine, not eighteen, and also a _manager_, but he doubted it would work. 

“Nothing,” he said, in a tone that suggested the exact opposite. He picked a piece of invisible lint off his hoodie and fixed Patrick with a stare. Patrick did his best to steadfastly stare back before Brendon huffed and dropped his arms and the attitude. “It’s not you.”

“What’s up?” Patrick asked. Brendon cracked his knuckles and sighed, shoulders slumping a little. 

“I went on a Grindr date last night,” he said. Patrick tried not to laugh. Brendon fixed him with a look that clearly told Patrick he wasn’t very successful. “Ryan somehow interrupted it. Which is awesome. I want my asshole ex husband to haunt me _forever_.”

“I’m sorry,” Patrick said quietly. Brendon grimaced. 

“It’s whatever,” he said. It wasn’t, but arguing with Brendon was nearly as unsuccessful as arguing with Patrick, so Patrick let it go. “Anyway. I am glad you feel better.”

That sounded genuine, so Patrick grinned a little at him, holding out his fist. Brendon made a face but dutifully fistbumped back before rolling his eyes and folding his arms again, turning with purpose and heading into the library, flipping on lights as he did. 

“Hey,” Joe said, behind a wall of books that he set down on the circulation desk. He huffed out a breath, straightening his tie, and leaned his elbow on the stack in a clear attempt at coolness he would never actually have. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah,” Patrick said. “Thanks. Though I nearly died in Walgreens after work Tuesday.”

“Really?” Joe said with interest, plopping down in the seat and beginning to check in the stack of books. “How did you escape?”

“Uh,” Patrick said, heroically refraining from blurting out _oh Pete drove me home and also brought me soup and I’m pretty sure I’d suck his dick if he asked_. “I don’t know.”

“Exciting,” Joe commented, evidently not spontaneously developing telepathy. “I hope a creep didn’t nearly kidnap you or something. You have all your kidneys, right?”

“Yeah,” Patrick said automatically, cheeks hot. Joe kept scanning books and Patrick pointed uselessly in the direction of his office. “I gotta check on stuff.”

“Yup,” Joe said, nodding. “Important librarian stuff. Got it. Tell me if you remember who kidnapped you from Walgreens only to return you home.”

“Right,” Patrick said faintly, and, in an act of sheer self preservation, walked away. 

His office did not provide any distraction from his mortifying internal monologue, mostly because his mortifying internal monologue was right. He totally would suck Pete’s dick if he asked. Among other things. Among a _lot_ of other things. Patrick might have had a list. That wasn’t the point. 

He logged into his email just to look at something else for one second. He had forty unread messages, thankfully mostly long message threads from the reference group and adult services group about things he could address after The Event, a couple notifications about the upcoming winter conference he’d signed up for, and 1 (one) message from an outside sender. 

Specifically, _lewis.kingston@hcbooks.com_.

Patrick started to sweat. 

_hello patrick--_

_i know youve mostly been talking to spencer throughout this, but i hate doing these things without talking to the people myself at least once. you guys do such awesome work and you never get appreciated. so thank you for hosting me! _

_i hope spencer hasn’t made me sound like a stuck up snob or anything. i promise i’m not. I heard there might be protestors at this thing. i wanted to know what i could do to help with that?_

_thank you for your time. i called yesterday and you were out--feel better soon._

_\--kingston lewis. _

Patrick stood up. He hoped his expression adequately conveyed his absolute fury, so he wouldn’t have to waste any time building it up when he let it rip on ...Joe. Probably Joe. 

“You!” he shouted. Joe jumped, and so did the patron he was helping. Patrick blinked--was it ten already?

“Yes?” Joe asked, sounding a little frightened. “Can I help you?”

Patrick narrowed his eyes. 

“Why was I not informed I got a phone call yesterday?” he demanded. The patron looked from Joe to Patrick in undisguised confusion. 

“Is that your boss?” she asked, sounding worried. 

“No,” Joe assured her, then scowled in Patrick’s direction. “Ignore him, he hasn’t been well.”

“Answer my question,” Patrick barked. 

“Uh, maybe because you didn’t get a damn phone call,” Joe bitched at him, then looked up at the patron. “Excuse my French.”

“I just got an email that said I did,” Patrick said. “If you didn’t take it, who did?”

“Great question,” Joe said, sounding annoyed. “Unfortunately not one I can answer. Go yell at someone else, but I highly doubt you’ll find anything out. Mostly because I take 99% of the calls, and _no one called you._.”

“I got an email that said I did,” Patrick protested, but Joe fully turned his back on Patrick, very determinedly ignoring him. Patrick let out an exasperated sigh and stomped--full dramatically, he was aware--off in the general direction of Brendon’s office to ruin his already shitty day. What were employees for?

“Excuse me,” a patron said. Patrick stopped dead, and looked at her. She was in front of the self-check machines, with a bag full of what Patrick assumed was the limit of checked out items, holding up a Costco card, wearing a _Make America Great Again_ t-shirt. 

“No,” Patrick said, and walked away before she could protest. No, he did not have the brain power to explain five times that that Costco card was not her library card, walk her through checking out each individual book, and listen to her racist rants. Not today. Not today, Satan.

He knocked on Brendon’s door and waited approximately 0.5 seconds before throwing the door open and shutting it behind him like zombies were crashing through the library. 

Brendon did not look impressed. 

“Yes?” he said shortly. Patrick opened his mouth and Brendon held up a hand. “If you are about to complain about a nonexistent phone call, get out of my office.”

“What?” Patrick said intelligently. Brendon looked, if possible, even less impressed. 

“There was no phone call for you,” he said, speaking slowly and enunciating like Patrick had had a few too many beers and was also possibly a stroke victim. “I don’t know why you think you had a phone call, but there was none for you.”

“But my email,” Patrick protested pathetically. Brendon leveled Patrick with the kind of stare that only a fed up manager going through a divorce who (probably) already had an employee complain about another ten minutes into his day. 

“Your email was wrong,” he said. “Is there a reason you’re still standing here?”

“Um,” Patrick said. Brendon narrowed his eyes. 

“Are you avoiding patrons?” he asked. “That’s literally part of your job, helping patrons. I can break out your job description for you if you like.”

“Um,” Patrick said again. Brendon pointed towards his office door. 

“Out,” he barked, and Patrick fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don’t hurt me i’m fragile


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick froze. Loud static, like a badly tuned radio in a ‘96 Chevy, took over his brain and the world seemed to genuinely stop spinning. If Patrick felt like he could even kind of look around, he wouldn’t have been surprised to see everyone frozen in time on the streets of Chicago. But he couldn’t look around--he was laser-focused on the person he’d bumped into, the person now looking at him with undisguised amusement. 
> 
> Pete--of course it was Pete, because Patrick was in the perfect mindset to see Pete right now--slid his phone into his pocket and fixed Patrick with a million-megawatt grin, slurping obnoxiously on his own iced coffee--which looked like he understood how to flavor it, not that Patrick was paying attention or anything--and raising one eyebrow above the edge of his still terrible sunglasses. 
> 
> “You’re in my way,” Patrick said, in a moment of sheer brilliance. Pete’s smile grew.
> 
> “My apologies,” he said, his faux-serious tone making Patrick flush hot. “I should watch where I’m going.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didn’t almost forget to post actually i’m just keeping you in your toes that’s all

Patrick decided 11:30 am was the perfect time for a coffee run. He wasn’t avoiding his coworkers. Avoiding his coworkers would be ridiculous. He wasn’t afraid of them. They didn’t scare him. Not in the slightest.

That was why he slapped on sunglasses, shoved his hands in his cardigan pockets, and shuffled quickly through the main library, head down, shoulders somewhere around his ears. He was pretty sure he was imagining Joe’s likely amused stare, but chose not to look back and check. Because he didn’t care. He _didn’t_.

The sun was bright even through his sunglasses and he squinted for a moment, eyes watering as his vision adjusted. He really spent too much time in his library cave. He was ready to hiss and scurry away from the warmth of the late-June sun, which was probably a weird thing for a grown man to do. True, he had fair skin and skin cancer was a genuine thing he worried about entirely too often, but hissing at the sun seemed a bit excessive.

He tugged the sleeves of his cardigan down a little more just to be safe and sniffed past the growing mucus in his nose. Was it time for meds already? What time was it? What _year_ was it?

Patrick yanked on the door to the coffeeshop with more force than he intended, causing it to swing out wildly, sending him stumbling a bit as a blast of cold air conditioning smacked him in the face. 

He straightened up. A few customers were shooting him less-than-subtle stares, but on the whole his inadvertent grand entrance seemed to have been unnoticed. He took a deep breath and stepped into the coffeeshop, breathing in the scent of roasted beans and baked goods. There was hardly a line--just some hipster in a beanie in the middle of summer--and Patrick was ordering before he’d quite decided what he was actually going to order. 

“Um,” he said. This week was really doing a number on his reputation for intelligence. “Iced coffee.”

The barista gave him a truly impressive withering look as she reached for the plastic cups. 

“Size?” she asked, but her tone begged Patrick to fuck off immediately. “Room for cream?”

“Yes,” Patrick said, before rushing to correct himself. “I mean, medium. And yes.”

The barista seemed like she was barely refraining from rolling her eyes, so after paying and scooping up the drink, he scurried to the creamer bar like a hunched-over goblin. 

This day should be restarted. That seemed like a good idea. He’d had just about enough of _today_ as a concept, he would like very much to rewind and start over. That would fix everything, he was pretty sure. He added milk with entirely unnecessary aggression, and dumped about a third of the sugar canister in as well. 

So. So far today, he’d pissed off his boss and his coworker, so that was a problem he needed to deal with because he was definitely relying on their help with the program Saturday. He stirred his coffee and thought--what to get two people who work for the library that also seemed to hate working for the library?

He took a sip. It was disgusting. He took another sip and headed for the door.

The problem was his lack of originality. He thought about it for a moment, taking another sip of his truly gross coffee that he couldn’t justify dumping before he’d at least made it back to the library. Imagine--being weird to the barista, dumping clearly too much creamer and sugar into the coffee, taking three sips, and dumping it before leaving. Now _that_ was too far. 

Still, it tasted like the urine of a diabetic cow, so he’d mostly given up on it and his thoughts in general when he ran smack into someone who was very rudely taking up the entire sidewalk. 

“Yeah,” they said. Patrick blinked and his brain informed him the rude asshole was talking on his phone. “Yeah, but I’ll call you back. Something came up.”

Patrick froze. Loud static, like a badly tuned radio in a ‘96 Chevy, took over his brain and the world seemed to genuinely stop spinning. If Patrick felt like he could even kind of look around, he wouldn’t have been surprised to see everyone frozen in time on the streets of Chicago. But he couldn’t look around--he was laser-focused on the person he’d bumped into, the person now looking at him with undisguised amusement. 

Pete--of course it was Pete, because Patrick was in the perfect mindset to see Pete right now--slid his phone into his pocket and fixed Patrick with a million-megawatt grin, slurping obnoxiously on his own iced coffee--which looked like he understood how to flavor it, not that Patrick was paying attention or anything--and raising one eyebrow above the edge of his still terrible sunglasses. 

“You’re in my way,” Patrick said, in a moment of sheer brilliance. Pete’s smile grew.

“My apologies,” he said, his faux-serious tone making Patrick flush hot. “I should watch where I’m going.”

“You should,” Patrick said, but there was no heat or force behind it at all, it just hung in the air between them limply as Patrick tried his hardest to make sure his expression did not in any way make it seem like he’d be open to sleeping with Pete. 

Because he wasn’t. He absolutely wasn’t.

“You look better,” Pete observed. Patrick made a half-strangled noise in the back of his throat. Pete very charitably ignored it. “For a while I thought that maybe you had died.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Patrick managed, and Pete actually laughed out loud in apparent delight. Patrick flushed harder. “But yes, I’m better.”

“Was it the soup?” Pete had the _audacity_ to ask, and Patrick made another strangled sound. “I know it was good but I’m not sure if it was that good.”

“You didn’t need to do that,” Patrick insisted. His cheeks were hot and he was pretty sure it wasn’t the sun. People on the streets of Chicago swarmed past them like they were little more than a rock in a stream, the flow diverted around them but not otherwise disturbed. Pete looked, as usual, amused, like he did every time he did something that flustered Patrick. Patrick shifted on his feet, left to right, trying his hardest not to outright squirm. 

“Do what?” Pete asked, before taking the straw on his ridiculously overpriced drink and slurping obnoxiously. Patrick swallowed as Pete threw him a wink before sliding his sunglasses off his face. Patrick squirmed, the heat in his cheeks growing. He gestured at nothing before self consciously returning his hands to his pockets despite the uncomfortable warmth of the day. His cardigan was getting damp. 

“You know,” Patrick said uselessly. Pete’s smirk, visible even around the neon yellow straw, grew. “That?”

“Taking you home?” Pete guessed. “So you didn’t die?”

“I wouldn’t have died,” Patrick said. It didn’t kill Pete’s smirk. “But--thank you.”

Pete shrugged one shoulder, gorgeous honey eyes still locked on Patrick. Patrick felt like maybe he was getting heatstroke, which was dangerous, right? He was pretty sure it was dangerous. He was pretty sure he needed to remove himself from Pete Wentz’s immediate vicinity to avoid certain death. He didn’t have life insurance. He didn’t want to inconvenience Brendon. He was thinking about getting a puppy; he didn’t want to make his potential puppy an orphan before he’d even adopted it.

“Don’t thank me too much,” Pete said, jerking Patrick out of his panic spiral. “I had ulterior motives in mind.”

“Like what?” Patrick blurted out before he could help himself. Pete’s smirk grew into a wicked grin as he placed his drink on one of the coffeeshop’s rickety patio tables and took Patrick’s wrist. Patrick felt the contact like an electric shock straight to his heart, whole body freezing and going tingly. There was a loud rushing noise in his ears and his mouth was dry and he was so focused on the feeling of Pete _touching him_ he nearly missed Pete’s response. 

“Like this,” he said, and kissed Patrick. 

Patrick’s drink fell to the sidewalk, probably exploding and sending over-doctored coffee all over his shoes, but he didn’t even care, just kissed back like he was dying for it. Who knew, he might have been dying for it. Pete’s beard scraped across his jaw, sending tingling straight down through Patrick’s spine, making his toes curl in his worn-out Converse. For lack of anything better to do, Patrick reflexively grasped at Pete’s t-shirt, shuddering a little when it just caused Pete’s grip on Patrick’s arm to tighten perfectly. 

Patrick felt his heart pound in his chest, felt the roar in his ears as he whined when Pete caught his lower lip between his teeth and ever so gently bit. He staggered forward until they were crushed together, chest to chest, and Patrick was pretty sure the entire fucking world could end at that moment and he wouldn’t mind. He could be fired, Kingston Lewis could refuse to come, one of the US’s ever-growing list of enemies could bomb them--it didn’t matter, not while Pete’s lips were pressed against his and Patrick liked Pete so much he was dizzy with it. 

Pete broke away and Patrick gasped for air a little more intensely that he meant to. His grip was still tight on Pete’s shirt and Pete’s eyes were wide, pupils blown, mouth hanging slightly open, and Patrick quite literally felt like fainting. 

“Wow,” he managed. He didn’t let go of Pete. He was a little afraid to. Pete still hadn’t said anything, just stared at Patrick like he wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. Pete swallowed--Patrick’s eyes were immediately drawn to the bobbing of his Adam’s apple--and let out a slow, shuddering breath. They were still pressed together, Patrick wondered if it was going to be physically possible to separate at this point. Pete slid his hands up Patrick’s arms to cup his cheeks, leaning forward to press the softest of kisses to Patrick’s lips. 

“So,” he said, and Patrick felt a tiny little thrill hearing the shakiness in Pete’s voice, knowing he helped cause it. “Does this count as sexual harassment?”

“We’re not in the library,” Patrick said, fighting a grin. 

“You’re still technically on the clock,” Pete pointed out. A hint of amusement was working its way back into his eyes and Patrick reached up, running his thumb across Pete’s slightly chapped lips, relishing in the tiny little shudder he got for it. 

“Well,” he said. “I can be persuaded to let it slide just this once.”

“Oh good,” Pete said. “You should come to dinner with me tonight, we can discuss how I can repay you.”

“That sounds logical,” Patrick whispered, and Pete swallowed again before kissing Patrick firmly and, despite the protests Patrick’s brain was making, seemingly reluctantly stepped away, fussing with Patrick’s cardigan until, Patrick assumed, he was presentable. 

“I should get you another coffee,” Pete said. Patrick shook his head. 

“Dinner and we’ll call it even,” he said. “I’m off at six.”

“Perfect,” Pete said. “Me too.”

“You’re self employed,” Patrick said, frowning. Pete winked. 

“It’s very important to pace myself,” he said seriously, then carefully took Patrick’s hand. “The streets of Chicago are dangerous. Let me make sure you get back safely.”

Patrick laced his fingers with Pete’s.

“If you insist,” he managed, cheeks hot. Pete looked at him for a long moment before raising their joined hands and pressing a kiss to the back of Patrick’s. 

“I insist,” he said, and Patrick thought it was a miracle he didn’t melt on the spot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Italian food is good,” Patrick said. He couldn’t stop looking at Pete. He was wearing clothes that looked sinfully good—Patrick ignored the very loud voice in his head that was saying they’d look better on the floor—and Patrick was losing the battle to not stare as the curve of Pete’s ass in his tight jeans or the hint of chest hair peeking out of his button-up. 
> 
> He was so hot. Patrick hated his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it’s happening!!! it’s happening!!! EVERYONE STAY CALM!!!

Brendon and Joe were taking turns eyeing Patrick with varying degrees of suspicion. Patrick had no idea why—he was pretty sure he was acting normally considering it was 5:55 and he would be on a date with Pete Fucking Wentz in approximately ten minutes. He figured it was basically impossible to tell. 

Brendon’s wary glare deepened as Patrick attempted to flash him a reassuring grin that apparently was not as reassuring as he thought. He grimaced and Brendon decided to speak up.

“Okay,” Brendon said, with all the apprehension of a mother confronting her triplets about who, exactly, smeared mashed potatoes on the wall. “Spill.”

“Spill what?” Patrick asked, with what he thought was a convincing air of innocence.

“You don’t fool me,” Brendon said. Evidently Patrick was not as innocent sounding as he’d planned. “You are acting weird. Not six hours ago I yelled at you and yet you’re acting like I have given you a raise _and_ your precious little porno writer asked you out.”

“Erotica,” Patrick protested. “You’re a librarian, you should know it’s called _erotica_.”

“_Whatever_,” Brendon emphasized, narrowing his eyes. “You’re dodging the question.”

“Nothing is happening,” Patrick lied. “I’m not allowed to be cheerful despite a hostile work environment?”

“Hostile work environment?” Brendon asked. “I’ll show you a hostile work environment.”

“Excuse me?” a patron asked. 

“We’re closed,” Brendon said, not even looking at the clock. Patrick was not on desk and wasn’t about to help someone with a reference question at—he checked the clock—5:57, so he stayed silent as the patron stared at Brendon like they were trying to figure out if he was joking. Brendon didn’t say anything else, so, after a moment, the patron huffed and walked back towards the doors. 

“You are a lousy librarian,” Patrick informed him. Brendon rolled his eyes. 

“Come on,” he said, drumming his fingers on the desk and staring Patrick down with frightening interest. “I have no joy in my life. You’re legally obligated to tell me about anything that is making you act this weird.”

“I’m not acting weird,” Patrick said firmly. 

“Doors are locked,” Joe said from behind Patrick, tossing the keys to Brendon. “Also you’re totally acting weird, Patrick. Like, totally.”

“Like, for real?” Patrick asked, exaggerating the valley girl accent Joe had developed. Joe flipped him the finger. “You guys are annoying. Look at that, it’s six o’clock and I am off work! See you guys tomorrow.”

Brendon made vaguely protesting noises but Patrick was already speedwalking through the library. He ducked into his office just long enough to grab his cardigan before making a beeline to the staff door and bursting through it into the evening summer sun. 

“Wow,” someone said. “Right on time. That’s impressive.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Patrick warned, hoping his suddenly-racing heart didn’t show on his face or anything. God. What if he was blushing? Patrick would _jump into traffic_ if he was blushing. “I was just tired of the library, that’s all.”

“Tired of the library,” Pete mused. He really did look almost offensively handsome, hair up in a messy bun, beard just the right amount of scruffy across his face—Patrick tried not to shudder remembering how that felt, the whisper-burn of it on his cheeks as he surrendered openly and completely to Pete Fucking Wentz. 

If Patrick had his way, tonight Pete’s name would change to _Pete Fucking Patrick_, that was all Patrick was saying. 

“How do you feel about Italian food?” Pete asked, and Patrick tried not to say anything stupid. “I know this place that makes a killer tiramisu.”

“Italian food is good,” Patrick said. He couldn’t stop looking at Pete. He was wearing clothes that looked sinfully good—Patrick ignored the very loud voice in his head that was saying they’d look better on the floor—and Patrick was losing the battle to not stare as the curve of Pete’s ass in his tight jeans or the hint of chest hair peeking out of his button-up. 

He was so hot. Patrick hated his life. 

“Shall we?” Pete asked. His voice was soft and his gaze on Patrick, when Patrick managed to tear his gaze away from Pete’s body, was gentle. Patrick could drown in his eyes, he really could. “I know how you feel about cars, but I do think it might be easier to use mine.”

“I’m not _opposed_ to cars,” Patrick said, and a tiny grin played on Pete’s lips. “I’d be willing to travel in your car.”

“Oh good,” Pete said. 

The ride to the restaurant went by between blinks, it felt like, and before Patrick knew it, they were seated across from each other, the restaurant’s low lighting making the whole thing more romantic than Patrick anticipated. The shadows playing on Pete’s face made Patrick’s heart skip a beat, and out of sheer self preservation, Patrick spoke.

“What do you do?” he asked, then wanted to slap himself. “I mean, I understand you’re self employed. What are you self employed in?”

“I work in publishing,” Pete said evasively. Patrick frowned, but Pete didn’t give him the opportunity to press. “I’ve always wanted to be a librarian, though.”

Patrick raised an eyebrow. 

“Really,” he deadpanned. “Tell me more.”

“Librarians are just so sexy,” Pete said, smirking, and Patrick fought a flush. 

“Then why do you want to be one?” he asked, and Pete clutched his chest dramatically. 

“Patrick!” he said, eyes comically wide. “You’ve dealt the killing blow!”

“Hurry up and die,” Patrick said, and, to his delight, Pete actually laughed out loud. He propped his chin on his hand, elbow on the table like Patrick’s mom always scolded him for, and his eyes were bright in amusement. Patrick felt very warm. 

“What made you want to be a librarian?” he asked, and the question sounded sincere. Patrick paused a moment, taking a sip of his iced tea in the vain hope of soothing his dry throat. 

“I’ve always loved books,” Patrick said slowly. A drop of condensation slid down the glass in front of him, soaking into the ring the glass was making on the tablecloth. He felt a little uncomfortable, like he was in a spotlight and the audience were staring, unblinking, as he tried to justify his life. “I was totally that kid in school that was always buried in a book. And I volunteered in adult literacy for school and I kind of fell in love, so I decided what better way to promote literacy than being a librarian?”

“You’re not wrong,” Pete said, then cocked his head. “And where does the porn come in?”

Patrick rolled his eyes as Pete smiled, big and open and honest, and Patrick wanted to say fuck the food, fuck the date, let’s go home. 

Heroically, he managed to not say that. Instead, he fixed Pete with his best disapproving look, the one he usually reserved for rowdy kids at the computers after school. Pete didn’t look phased, the cheeky bastard, and shamelessly stole a sip of Patrick’s iced tea. 

“What should we talk about?” Pete asked. “Family trauma? Politics?”

“Proper library conduct?” Patrick asked. 

“Now that’s what I call foreplay,” Pete said, and Patrick threw the crumpled up paper from his straw at Pete. Pete frowned, picking it up and looking meaningfully at Patrick. “Patrick, plastic straws are bad for the environment.”

“That is just a tiny facet of the problem,” Patrick huffed, sitting up straighter and getting ready to gear into his usual rant. “Banning plastic straws is ableist and does nothing to combat the millions of pounds of plastic waste produced by mega corporations each year.”

“I love it when you talk all smart,” Pete sighed dreamily. Patrick rolled his eyes. “But seriously, I totally get that. I saw this documentary about plastic, I forget the name, but it blew my mind.”

Patrick didn’t say anything cutting or cheeky, just looked at Pete with more fondness than he cared to admit as Pete gesticulated with his fork, leaning back for the waiter to place their food in front of them before continuing his rant, unfazed. He was gorgeous like this, Patrick thought. Unreserved. Passionate. He was the kind of man Patrick knew was hiding under that aura of sarcasm and jokes. 

“Sorry,” Pete said, drawing Patrick out of his white picket fence daydream. “I can just go on and on.”

“I like it,” Patrick said honestly, and Pete looked a little taken aback. “I like a man with brains.”

“Great news for zombies everywhere,” Pete said, but he was flushing. He tore his gaze away from Patrick, cheeks pink, and looked down at the food. “Um. Well, I hope you like this place.”

“You suggested it,” Patrick said, shrugging. “I’m sure I will.”

Patrick didn’t taste a single thing all night. His appetite was quenched by Pete’s soft looks of what Patrick would call adoration from across the table as they both ate quietly.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So,” Pete said. They were hovering on Patrick’s porch. It was unspeakably awkward. “I had fun.”
> 
> “Shut up and kiss me,” Patrick said, giving up on any sense of propriety he could possibly have. He was high on the combination of a good meal and Pete’s company and at the moment he wanted nothing more than to feel Pete against him in any way possible. He absolutely refused to have any shame—he was fresh out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry this chapter is so long i promise i’ll never do it again

“So,” Pete said. They were hovering on Patrick’s porch. It was unspeakably awkward. “I had fun.”

“Shut up and kiss me,” Patrick said, giving up on any sense of propriety he could possibly have. He was high on the combination of a good meal and Pete’s company and at the moment he wanted nothing more than to feel Pete against him in any way possible. He absolutely refused to have any shame—he was fresh out. 

Pete was grinning, anyway, something sultry and dark, and he reached out to tangle his hand in Patrick’s hair and gently tug. Patrick gasped, eyes fluttering closed, and Pete’s smirk deepened. 

“With pleasure,” he practically purred, and Patrick barely had time to take a breath before Pete was on him, kisses hard and demanding right off the bat. His beard scraped Patrick’s cheeks and Patrick gave a helpless moan into his mouth as he surrendered nearly completely. 

He was vaguely aware that he had neighbors, but any thoughts about what they were seeing were irrelevant to the feeling of Pete’s lips on his, Pete’s insistent tongue teasing its way into Patrick’s mouth, stealing all of Patrick’s air and coherent thought just like that. He grasped at Pete’s shirt, probably wrinkling it, but if he had his way it would be off soon, so it didn’t matter. 

Pete kissed like a poet, like he was full of words that he just wanted to pour into Patrick, breath by breath, and Patrick felt impossibly full with their beauty. Everything was poetry—the way Pete’s hands felt in his hair, the slight chill of the summer night air around them, the feel of Pete’s silken shirt under his clasping hands, even the way Pete’s nose kind of dug into Patrick’s cheekbone and the way Patrick was sure he was red-cheeked and starstruck. 

“So,” Patrick said, trying to sound suave and put together when they broke apart and failing miserably. He all but panted for breath, wide eyes locked on Pete, still grabbing Pete’s shirt for what felt like dear life. “Are you, like...busy? Tonight?”

It was the single worst way Patrick had _ever_hinted that he wanted to sleep with someone, and Patrick was very much including the time after prom when he stammered through an incoherent invitation that bemused his date so badly he thought Patrick was inviting him to go swimming. He managed not to wince and swallowed, trying frantically to find any words that were even remotely sexy to convince Pete he was worth actually fucking.

“I’m booked,” Pete said, and Patrick hoped his sheer disappointment didn’t show all over his face. He forced himself to let Pete go, taking a deep breath to will his heart rate to slow, for him to be calm. He took a step back but Pete reached out quickly, grabbing his wrist to still him. “I should clarify. I’m busy with you tonight. At least, I’m assuming that was what you were implying?”

Patrick gaped for a long moment, slightly disbelieving, but Pete was giving him a cautious smile, like he wasn’t actually sure if Patrick was into the thought of sex with him despite all the evidence to the contrary. He licked his lips despite how dry his mouth was and nodded, apparently unable to form words. Pete’s grin got more real, and he slid his hand down Patrick’s wrist to take his hand.

“Well,” he said, gesturing for the door. “What are we waiting for? Let’s get me out of my mind and get you out of those clothes.”

Patrick blinked in surprise and Pete instantly looked regretful, like he shouldn’t have said anything, which was _ridiculous_ because if there was one way to Patrick’s heart (and dick) it was a line from a Kingston Lewis book. 

“You really did read it,” he said softly. Pete cocked his head. “Wow.”

Pete winked, but he still looked nervous. 

“I live to please,” he said, and Patrick reached for his keys. 

The blind stumble through Patrick’s front door and down his hall to the bedroom, shedding clothes as they went, was all a complete blur in Patrick’s mind, highlighted sporadically by the swoop in his stomach with every inch of tanned skin Pete revealed, from the tattooed swell of his biceps to the curly dark hair leading tantalizingly down to a frankly gorgeous cock. Patrick itched with how much he wanted to touch it. 

Pete, for his part, was staring at Patrick like Patrick was something special, and not a slightly chubby, pale, awkward librarian with an erotica collection and an unhealthy appreciation for his favorite authors. Pete’s fingertips were light as he trailed his touch down Patrick’s ribs, making him shiver involuntarily, breath catching as Pete grabbed his hip tight.

“Wow,” he said, voice actually cracking and not at all as suave and effortless as Patrick had expected from him. “I think it’s a crime you dress in so many layers all the time. Do they teach you to be this sexy in library school?”

“I want you to fuck me so hard I feel it for the rest of the week,” Patrick said evenly, and was rewarded by a sharp inhale and the widening of Pete’s whisky eyes. Pete’s hands, still on Patrick, trembled a little, and Patrick covered them with his own hands and stepped closer to kiss Pete. 

Pete’s cock rubbed against Patrick’s stomach, and Patrick shuddered at the feeling of the wetness of Pete’s pre-come smearing across his skin. Pete groaned into Patrick’s mouth, hands sliding out from under Patrick’s to encircle his waist, drawing him close enough to be chest to chest. Patrick could feel the shallow breaths Pete was taking, chest rising and falling in time with Patrick’s, and Patrick tilted his head and deepened the kiss. 

“God, you’re gorgeous,” Pete groaned, breaking away until their lips were just inches apart. “God you’re so fucking gorgeous, it’s unreal.”

“Yeah?” Patrick asked, voice shaky, betraying him completely. “I think you’re looking in a mirror.”

“You’re too much,” Pete whispered, and Patrick found himself flat on his back on his own bed, Pete holding himself above him, dragging his tongue down Patrick’s neck. Patrick groaned, back arching involuntarily, one hand fisted in his comforter, the other finding its way to Pete’s hair. His cock was so hard he was practically aching, and the feel of Pete’s tongue on his overheated skin and his breath on Patrick’s neck, and the short sparks of pleasure straight to his gut when the tip of his cock rubbed against Pete’s abs were damn near doing him in. 

“Please,” Patrick said. It was more of a whimper, and Pete groaned, mouth still pressed to Patrick’s neck. Patrick hoped there would be marks. Wouldn’t be marks? Patrick didn’t even know what he wanted anymore, outside of Pete and Pete’s touch and Pete’s cock. 

“Yeah,” Pete said breathily. It didn’t make much sense, but Patrick didn’t care. The slightest touch of Pete’s hands on Patrick’s thighs made him spread his legs without thinking about it. It had been so long. So fucking long. He hadn’t been laid since Travie, and even then it was the kind of half-hearted sex couples have when they’re on the verge of breaking up. 

It was certainly nothing like this. Patrick was so turned on his brain was frying. He kissed Pete when Pete pressed their lips together, knowing he looked and sounded desperate but not really caring. 

Pete sucked kisses into Patrick’s inner thighs and Patrick made a noise that was probably best classified as _embarrassing_. He reached blindly in the vague direction of his nightstand, knocking shit over but not caring until he found what he was looking for and, triumphant, pressed the condom and lube into Pete’s chest. 

“Really?” Pete said, as if Patrick was messing with him. 

“Yeah,” Patrick said, not having the mental fortitude to mess with Pete at this point. “I want you so bad.”

“God,” Pete whispered, voice breaking. He ducked down and gently kissed the mark he’d left on Patrick’s thigh before licking the tip of Patrick’s leaking cock. Patrick’s brain was now jelly. Pete nuzzled into Patrick’s groin and the feeling of his beard against Patrick’s oversensitive skin so close to his cock felt like being electrocuted in the best way, just waves of nearly overwhelming pleasure until Patrick was gasping as Pete slid a finger in. 

“Good?” Pete asked. He sounded fucking wrecked. _Patrick_ did that. Patrick wrecked him. Patrick’s stomach fluttered. He couldn’t find the words to give Pete a verbal response, just shuddered and moaned, relishing in Pete’s answering groan. 

Patrick felt teeth against the soft skin of the crease between his thigh and his groin and made an undignified sound. Pete’s finger curled deeper and Patrick arched his back involuntarily as Pete teased a second alongside the first. Oh, fuck. Patrick felt high and drunk and dizzy on his desperate _want_ for this man, the man just days ago he would have sworn he hated. 

Now he was kind of certain he wanted to wake up beside Pete every day for the rest of his life. _Love_ was a word too strong for such a short time, but damned if Patrick didn’t feel it. 

A cry was ripped from him as Pete found his prostate. He clenched down without meaning to, and Pete worried at the skin on his hip, softly stroking Patrick’s prostate until his breathing evened out a little and he relaxed. 

Pete’s fingers felt incredible, better than his own by far. He tossed his head back against the pillow as Pete pressed a third into him, making soft nonsense sounds into his skin as Patrick gasped and shook. 

“So beautiful,” Pete whispered. “So beautiful, look at you, _listen_ to you.”

“Please,” Patrick pleaded, voice cracking. “Pete, please, please.”

Pete pulled his fingers free and Patrick exhaled shakily, the air conditioned air cold against the wetness of the lube Pete left behind. Patrick’s legs were shaking, and as he watched Pete fight with the condom against lube-slick hands, his own hand snuck down in order to give his aching, weeping cock a tight squeeze and a stroke from root to tip, making him sigh in relief. 

His eyes were drawn to Pete’s cock, where he was rolling the condom on, evidently successful in his battle. Pete took a steadying breath, meeting Patrick’s eyes, a little hint of nervousness in his own. 

He was the hottest thing Patrick had ever seen, all tan skin and dark tattoos and the perfect amount of hair from his chest to his groin, and Patrick wondered wildly how the fuck he got this lucky. 

“Okay?” Pete asked shakily. Patrick couldn’t draw breath to respond, just nodded hard, reaching up to tangle his hand back into Pete’s hair and draw him down for a kiss. 

He moaned into Pete’s mouth as he felt the blunt head of Pete’s cock push into him, bigger than his fingers, sending a wave of sparks across Patrick’s entire body. Patrick’s brain narrowed down to the following things, and the following things only: the feel of Pete’s labored breathing against his cheek as he slowly pushed in, the stretch and slight burn of his cock filling Patrick better than any toy he’d used the entire year he’d been single, the white-knuckled grip Pete had on the comforter and Patrick had in his hair in return, and the feeling of Pete’s overheated, slightly damp skin pressed against Patrick’s, as close as humanly possible. 

“Do you—fuck—” Pete was struggling to speak coherently. Patrick could relate. His heart was racing, pounding in every pulse point on his body. Pete panted, and managed to continue. “Fuck, do you need me to go slow?”

“Fuck me,” was all Patrick managed to bite out. “Fuck me, fuck me hard, you feel amazing—”

His answer was cut off by his own strangled cry as Pete pulled out and damn near slammed back into him, the full length of his cock rubbing against Patrick’s prostate. Patrick made an incoherent noise, fighting with his cement legs in order to wrap them around Pete’s waist, changing the angle ever so slightly so that Pete’s next hard thrust hit his prostate dead on. 

The noise he made at that would make pornstars feel jealous, he thought, and his brain continued to go fuzzy, fireworks going off behind his eyelids with every solid thrust. Pete’s grunts turned Patrick on even more, impossibly, sending Patrick on a dizzy whirlwind of feeling. He could barely cope, just kept panting and gasping and clinging to Pete, the sensitive red tip of his cock rubbing against the wiry hair of Pete’s chest over and over and over until—

Patrick choked on an honest to God scream and came, splattering Pete’s chest with come. Patrick watched it glisten and slide down Pete’s skin with heavy lidded eyes, the breath pushed out of him as Pete continued until he made a noise Patrick wanted burned into his memory and stilled, grip tight on Patrick’s hips, shoulders shaking. 

Patrick felt overwhelmed with feeling, the air in his bedroom hot and heavy. Pete had all but collapsed on top of him, cock slipping free as he did, and Patrick clenched around nothing as he felt suddenly empty. 

Pete was panting, hot breath on Patrick’s neck, but it wasn’t gross and Pete wasn’t too heavy. He felt like a warm blanket, albeit an awkwardly shaped one, and Patrick turned his head and pressed a kiss to Pete’s temple, getting mostly hair but he figured the gesture still counted. 

Patrick’s breathing was slowing, his heart rate returning to normal. After a long moment of quiet, both Pete and Patrick gathering themselves again, Pete pushed himself off Patrick with shaky arms and collapsed alongside him. Patrick’s come was drying on Pete’s stomach. Patrick’s mouth went dry despite his body saying _nope_ to a second round quite yet. 

“That was,” Patrick said, voice hoarse. He wasn’t surprised. He didn’t usually make those noises. “Wow.”

“I’ll take that as a complement,” Pete said. He was quieter than Patrick thought he would be, arm thrown across his eyes, cock limp between his legs. With immense effort, Patrick rolled onto his side to face Pete. 

“It was,” he said gently, reaching out to gently run his fingers down the length of Pete’s arm, tracing over tattoos and veins until Pete’s breath caught and he finally moved his arm in order to look at Patrick. Patrick gave him a soft smile, which Pete hesitantly returned, and scooted a little closer. “Next time, we can switch.”

“Next time?” Pete asked, like the concept was foreign to him. “Switch?”

Patrick felt a sharp pain in his chest—maybe he’d read this all wrong. Maybe Pete just wanted a hookup and Patrick was, as usual, getting way too emotionally involved. He should have known better. He cursed himself internally and got ready to stand, but Pete’s hand darted out, quick as anything, and stopped him. 

“You’d go out with me again?” Pete asked. He sounded genuinely surprised about that and Patrick’s chest hurt for an entirely different reason. He lowered himself back down, reaching out to brush Pete’s hair away from his face. Pete bit his lip. 

“Of course I would,” Patrick whispered. “You aren’t getting rid of me that easy. You owe me.”

Pete cracked a smile and rolled onto his side, too, pillowing his head on his hands. His beautiful eyes roamed over Patrick’s body before finally meeting Patrick’s own eyes, searching for something Patrick hoped was there. 

“Well, I might as well date you,” he teased, and Patrick rolled his eyes. “At least until you figure out my dirty little secret.”

“What’s your dirty little secret?” Patrick asked. Pete’s smile grew. 

“Well if I tell you, it’s not a secret, is it?” he asked, and Patrick huffed out a laugh, leaning in awkwardly to press a kiss to Pete’s nose. 

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll do research.”

“Spoken like a true librarian,” Pete said, and Patrick tackled him as best he could while they were both lying down, struggling with Pete until he wound up straddling Pete, pinning his hands to the bed and smirking victoriously. 

“I win,” he said, and Pete’s cheeks darkened. 

“Oh no,” he managed. “Whatever will you do now?”

“I have some ideas,” Patrick said, and ducked down to kiss Pete hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they had SEX what could POSSIBLY GO WRONG??


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your other branches don’t charge that,” Ryan snapped. Patrick shrugged. 
> 
> “We’re a family owned enterprise,” he said, and Pete made a strangled choking noise as he quickly lost the battle against laughter. Patrick couldn’t look at him, afraid he’d lose it, too. On his other side, Brendon hadn’t moved, rooted to the spot. His hands were still shaking. Patrick was struck with an urge to get Ryan out of this building as quickly as possible. 
> 
> “I’m going to report you,” Ryan threatened. Patrick nodded seriously. 
> 
> “I agree,” he said. “It’s morally repugnant to charge someone that much for copies. But then again, you’d know all about being morally repugnant right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg it’s friday!!! what’s gonna happen tomorrow??? who knows!!! no way to tell!!!

Brendon was staring at Patrick. 

Patrick did not appreciate it. 

“Stop,” he said grouchily. “You look like you’re plotting my murder.”

“I’m not,” Brendon said, which was probably at least 85% a lie, based on how difficult Patrick made Pete’s life on a daily basis. Patrick pointedly shuffled papers at the reference desk, straightening out the keyboard passive-aggressively while maintaining eye contact with Brendon, who still looked infuriatingly intrigued. 

“Will you just ask?” Patrick finally sighed, shoving the paper away and leaning back in the chair, arms folded. He looked at Brendon expectantly. Brendon raised an eyebrow. 

“Ask about what?” 

Patrick reminded himself that punching his boss was _not_ conducive to keeping his job, and his job came with perks like health insurance and Pe—

Patrick attempted to shut that thought down quickly, feeling the back of his neck heat up as he remembered the feel of Pete’s hands on him. This was a really bad time. Patrick should maybe stop thinking about the next time he’d get to ride Pete like he was dying for it. Patrick should _stop_.

“I have work to do,” he said, suddenly and abruptly. Brendon looked amused. Patrick hated him. Brendon raised an eyebrow and gestured at the empty library.

“Ah yes,” he deadpanned. “So busy.”

“I do,” Patrick insisted. He shuffled with the papers on the reference desk in a mostly futile attempt to prove it. Brendon looked mostly amused. Patrick’s gaze fell on his computer, and the date. “It’s Friday. Gotta finish up everything before the weekend, you know.”

“Oh, the weekend,” Brendon said, nodding. “Of course. Just answer me this. What’s happening tomorrow?”

Patrick stared at him. Brendon was smirking. The entire calendar of events had left Patrick’s brain sometime around when Pete kissed him stupid. That wasn’t the point.

“I can’t tell if whoever you slept with last night was so good in bed you _forgot_ about your porn writer, or if whoever you slept with last night _was_ your porn writer and you’re trying to hide it,” Brendon said. His eyes were unnervingly focused on him. Patrick’s stomach flipped--the event. _Fuck_, the event! How the fuck had he forgotten about that, the one fucking thing he’d been planning for _months_, holy _crap_ was he even prepared?

“So it’s the first one,” Brendon said, sounding too amused for his own good. Patrick couldn’t even think about denying the sex. He was too panicked. “Don’t worry. I took care of the day-before publicity for you. Because I’m nice.”

Patrick’s brain short-circuited as relief shot through him. If Brendon really had done that, then Patrick wasn’t behind at all, which was fantastic news since his brain was too sex-drunk to remember much of anything, even the morning after. He decided he’d shelve the mortification of his boss discussing his sex life for another time.

Brendon smirked.

“It’s okay,” he said, and Patrick hated his tone. “I’ll lord it over you forever, sound good?”

“I hate you,” Patrick said. His heart beat was slowly returning to normal after his (minor, totally minor) freakout. “Has anyone told you you’re extremely unlikeable? I feel like that’s a thing you should be reminded of occasionally.”

“I don’t need likeability to make that sweet, sweet manager dough,” Brendon said, condescension dripping from his words. He leaned against the desk, one bony hip cocked out like some sort of model for the worst dressed manager alive, and folded his arms, leaning in like he had a secret he was dying to tell Patrick. 

“What?” Patrick asked, just so he wouldn’t punch Brendon in his stupid, smug face. He liked his job. Violence was not the answer, just because he already missed Pete, which was ridiculous, and who said Pete was missing him? He wasn’t here, was he?

Patrick needed to _stop_.

“I was just wondering,” Brendon said, stage whispering, complete with a hand cupped around his mouth, mirth in his dark eyes. “Why your neck is covered in hickies. Seems a little unprofessional.”

“It is not,” Patrick said instantly, clapping a hand over where he guessed they were. “I mean. If there’s anything there. It’s probably an allergic reaction.”

“Mhm,” Brendon said. Patrick _hated_ him. “Is that why you look a little panicked? And why you covered up exactly where they are?”

“Please go away,” Patrick said. 

“Why?” Brendon asked. “Are you ashamed? You shouldn’t be ashamed of your sex life, Patrick, sex is a completely natural—”

“I am literally begging you to shut up,” Patrick hissed, cheeks hot and eyes locked on the figure approaching the desk, a figure who was quickly becoming recognizable, from his dumb ripped tank top, gorgeous biceps, stupid sunglasses, and breathtaking smile. Brendon gasped theatrically. 

“Did you sleep with Patron Pete?” he asked, sounding delighted. “Oh my god, tell me everything. Was it hate sex? Did you actually go on a _date_? Is that why you rushed out of here yesterday?”

“I will give you a thousand dollars to stop,” Patrick hissed, then fixed his best approximation of a smile on his face, hand still pressed to his neck. 

Based on Pete’s expression as he stopped at the desk, Patrick’s smile was more of a grimace and Brendon was probably looking inappropriately amused. Patrick felt Brendon stand up straight and had zero time to react as Brendon tugged his hand away from his neck. 

Patrick flushed hard, red from the tips of his ears to his collarbones, body going hot, heart racing. Pete was looking from Brendon to Patrick like he wasn’t sure what to think, and Patrick wanted to _die_.

“Hi,” he said, strangled. Pete looked uncertain. 

“Hi?” he said, quiet. “Um, is this a bad time?”

“It’s never a bad time, this is the library,” Brendon said. Patrick _hated him_. “Patrick will be happy to serve you, we were just talking about the awesome dude he went out with yesterday. He couldn’t shut up about how happy he is. But I’m sorry, we should be professional.”

The uncertainty had faded from Pete’s face by the time Brendon was done lying out his ass. Patrick maybe hated Brendon less. He offered Pete a tentative smile, neck burning where he knew he really did have hickies, and Pete offered one back, leaning on his elbows against the reference desk, clearly aiming for his usual level of cool and failing. Patrick was so charmed it didn’t matter. God. Pete had made Patrick _soft_. He was going to have to be rude to twenty patrons to get his cred back. 

“Well,” Pete said, and Patrick could just detect a nervous tremor in his voice. “I have, uh, a couple reference questions.”

“Sure,” Patrick said, voice practically squeaking. His face still felt hot. He wanted to ditch work and take Pete home again, like, now. 

“Excuse me,” someone said from behind Patrick, and Patrick’s brain was slow to recognize the voice, but it only took one glance at Brendon’s suddenly closed off expression for Patrick to put the pieces together. “Seeing as how there’s two of you, could I get help?”

Brendon looked like he wanted to vomit and scream, but he took a step forward before Patrick abruptly stood up, blocking his path. 

“What,” he said, voice as hard and cold as he could make it. Pete, because he was a genius, stepped to the side, pretending to be very interested in the pamphlets on the table next to the desk. Patrick could tell he was listening, though. 

Ryan—that fucking asshole—raised an eyebrow and glanced behind Patrick, towards Brendon, who’d turned his back and was fussing with something on the bookshelves behind the desk with hands Patrick hoped only he could tell were shaking. 

“I need copies,” Ryan said, thrusting papers into Patrick’s chest. Patrick glanced down at them and pure rage shot through him so hard and so fast he was surprised he didn’t quite literally explode. As it was, he couldn’t stop his hands curling slightly into fists, rustling the paper, and Ryan looked so amused Patrick honestly wished he would drop dead. 

The paper on top said, in bold letters, _** PETITION FOR THE DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE**_ and Patrick felt like throwing up. Underneath, in smaller but no less painful letters to read, was:

_IN THE MARRIAGE OF_

_George Ryan Ross-Urie, Petitioner_

_and_

_Brendon Boyd Ross-Urie, Respondent_

Patrick didn’t need to read any further. He glanced up at Ryan, hoping his complete and utter hatred was clearly visible in his expression, hoping everything he couldn’t say was understandable. Ryan walked through the library doors and waited for Brendon to come out. Ryan intended to make Brendon make copies _of their divorce forms_ as some sort of sick final _fuck you_ to a husband that hadn’t done anything wrong. 

Patrick had never hated anyone more in his entire life. 

“Sure,” he said, voice so cold he was surprised he couldn’t see his breath. “It’s ten dollars a page.”

“Excuse me?” Ryan said, looking surprised, then pointed. “Sign says ten cents.”

Patrick shrugged. He knew what the sign said. He saw it every day. But fuck if he was going to be honest to this piece of shit. 

“The economy,” he said, faux sadly. “Times are rough. It’s ten dollars a page now. New sign will be posted tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Ryan bit out. Patrick raised an eyebrow. “Fuck you, I need the copies.”

“There’s no need to take that tone with me,” Patrick said firmly, then looked down, pretending to read something on his desk. “Oh, whoops, I’m sorry. I misread the email. It’s actually thirty dollars a page, and there’s a ninety dollar minimum.”

“You didn’t even check your email,” Ryan argued, sounding outraged. Patrick had to work to not smirk. “Are you going to let your employee lie to customers?”

The last line was directed at Brendon. Patrick heard his quick intake of breath, but he didn’t turn around, just kept shuffling papers. Patrick was proud of him.

“Wow, look, another email just came in,” Patrick said, not even bothering to pretend to look at his computer or anywhere other than at Ryan’s frustrated face. Ryan scowled. “It’s fifty dollars a page now for black and white, one hundred for color. I’m sorry, the library is just hurting in this economy.”

Pete abruptly slapped a hand over his mouth, muffling the noise that he’d made in response to that. Patrick glanced over at him and saw pure amusement in his expression, eyes watering with unshed tears of mirth.

Ryan made an angry noise kind of like the noise the feral cat Patrick fed by the dumpsters of the library made when he got too close to it. Patrick looked back at him, hoping he looked bored and disinterested.

“If you’re not going to help me, I’ll go somewhere else,” Ryan said, as if that was a bad thing. Patrick barely kept from laughing outright. As it was, he couldn’t help the smirk on his face. Much. 

“I’ll help you,” he said, hoping his tone conveyed his true feelings. “For fifty dollars a page.”

“Your other branches don’t charge that,” Ryan snapped. Patrick shrugged. 

“We’re a family owned enterprise,” he said, and Pete made a strangled choking noise as he quickly lost the battle against laughter. Patrick couldn’t look at him, afraid he’d lose it, too. On his other side, Brendon hadn’t moved, rooted to the spot. His hands were still shaking. Patrick was struck with an urge to get Ryan out of this building as quickly as possible. 

“I’m going to report you,” Ryan threatened. Patrick nodded seriously. 

“I agree,” he said. “It’s morally repugnant to charge someone that much for copies. But then again, you’d know all about being morally repugnant right?”

Ryan’s face turned from angry to downright murderous as he nearly shook where he stood. Patrick was reasonably sure he was safe physically (and God knew no one got fired from this library system) but Ryan’s rage was scary, and Patrick was starting to see Brendon’s now-former marriage in a different light. 

Had he always been like this?

“Can I make copies?” he hissed out through clenched teeth. Patrick opened his mouth but before he could answer, he was interrupted. 

“Fifty dollars a page, didn’t you hear?” Pete said. He was smirking, still clearly amused, but the heat of Ryan’s angry glare was redirected. “And he’s telling the truth, I had to pay that much to print out my manifesto. Tough times.”

“Your...manifesto?” Ryan asked, clearly thrown for a loop, enough to distract him from the issue at hand. Pete split into a borderline creepy smile. 

“Oh, yeah,” he said, nodding. “My manifesto is going to change the world. It’s about genetic modifications to humans to enable us to breathe under water. Of course, it requires...volunteers.” Pete looked Ryan up and down. “You actually fit the bill nicely. Shall we talk?”

Ryan’s look of rage transformed into one of alarm, and he looked quickly from Patrick, who was doing his best to remain stoic, and Pete, who was still grinning creepily. He seemed to grapple with words for a moment before turning and nearly fleeing the library, one panicked look behind him as he went. 

The door swung shut behind Ryan and the lobby was quiet. Pete stayed still where he was, clearly doing his best to not look at Brendon. Brendon was still facing away from the lobby, grip so tight on the papers he was meaninglessly shuffling that they were wrinkled and damp from his likely sweaty palms. Patrick glanced at him one more time before clearing his throat. 

“I hear your phone ringing in your office,” he said, and Brendon hardly waited for Patrick to finish lying, just made a beeline towards his office without a word. 

Patrick watched him go, a little sad, before he looked back at Pete with a sigh. 

“Thanks,” he said honestly. “Just—thank you so much.”

Pete shrugged one shoulder, though he seemed to still be examining Patrick closely. Examining him for what, Patrick wasn’t sure, but he didn’t bring it up. 

“I don’t know who that is,” Pete said. “But I gather—asshole ex?”

“Got it in one,” Patrick confirmed, nodding. Pete huffed out a breath, still staring at Patrick. The silence grew between them, almost agonizing, Patrick waiting with baited breath, though what he was waiting for was up for debate, before Pete sucked in a quick breath and cocked his head. 

“You’re an awesome employee,” he said, so earnestly Patrick felt his heart skip a beat. “An awesome employee and an awesome friend.”

Patrick shrugged helplessly for lack of anything else to do or say, staring at Pete, not daring to blink. Pete’s gaze felt heavy and warm and Patrick wanted to fall into it forever. 

Christ. He’d always worried the poetry section might get to him one day. 

“Dinner tonight?” Pete asked, apparently sensing that Patrick couldn’t figure out what words were or how to use them. Patrick swallowed, throat dry as a desert, and nodded. Pete’s smile was gentle. “Good. I’ll meet you here.”

Patrick nodded and Pete turned to go. Patrick tongue felt thick and stupid in his mouth but he did his best to force it to cooperate.

“See you at six,” he called, and Pete glanced over his shoulder with another soft smile before disappearing through the library doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ho boy. sure hope patrick isn’t catching....feelings....


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick just kept staring at Pete with open adoration. He knew intellectually that at one point he’d hated Pete Wentz’s guts, but it was hard to remember that now, with his heart doing somersaults and a permanent smile on his face. He kept watching Pete as he drove, thinking over and over: _ I’m so lucky. I’m so lucky._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> he’s BACK!!!! thanks to glitter, snitches, and my wife.

Patrick wondered if checking his watch would be rude. Patrick wondered if getting up and walking away would be rude. He wondered if either would even be noticed, honestly; the patron was so worked up Patrick bet he could burn down the library with her in it and she would still be nonstop ranting about the Illuminati. 

Not that Patrick would burn down the library. That would hurt the books.

“And you lot are the worst of it,” the woman said, slamming her fist on the reference desk so hard Patrick jumped a little. She, unsurprisingly, didn’t seem to notice, despite Patrick inching his fingers towards the phone. She was frothing at the mouth. Patrick was slightly concerned about rabies and tried to slide back in his seat as best he could.

_How are we the worst of it?_ he desperately wanted to ask, but he was semi-convinced that this lady was a T-Rex and she could only see movement, so it was in Patrick’s best interests to remain as still and quiet as possible. He wanted to look desperately around for coworkers, but he felt frozen in place. 

He was a nice fucking person. He didn’t deserve this. Earlier today! He’d stood up for Brendon! And sent Ryan running! 

Okay, technically Pete had helped a lot, but still. 

He firmly ignored the hot flush that rushed over him thinking about Pete. It was fine. It was nothing. They were just meeting up for dinner and that was _it_. Totally and completely platonic.

Oh, who was Patrick kidding? Nothing about the time he was spending with Pete was platonic in the _slightest_. Patrick was going to ride him so hard he woke up sore. Or fuck Pete into unconciousness. Or both. Patrick really wasn’t picky.

“Are you going to help me?” the woman demanded, and Patrick blinked back into the present with a dizzying rush of reality. He cleared his throat. 

“Um,” he said, as diplomatically as possible. He didn’t really want to ask for clarification and risk another rant, but he also had no idea what she wanted. “I’m sorry. Can you just clarify for me one more time what you need?”

The woman scowled. Patrick was reminded of a feral cat. She held up what was, if Patrick concentrated beyond the dirt, what appeared to be a library card before thrusting it towards Patrick, who barely refrained from shoving himself backwards to avoid any diseases. He looked with horror at the grimy card, then looked at the woman’s face for any sign of the long-running joke she _must_ have been pulling on him. 

He realized, with growing nausea, that she seemed as serious as a deranged conspiracy theorist could be. 

“Um,” he said again. The woman’s scowl deepened. Patrick really wasn’t coming out on top here. “I can’t see the barcode.”

“The what?” the woman snapped, like she’d never heard that word before. Patrick wasn’t sure that wasn’t actually true now that he thought about it. He cleared his throat. 

“Barcode,” he said, reaching blindly into the desk drawer and holding up a blank library card to demonstrate. “I’ll need to scan it. And it’s...covered up.”

_Covered up_ was remarkably diplomatic, but the woman rolled her eyes before looking down at the card and raising an eyebrow. Patrick reached for the baby wipes they kept on the desk and held them out like peace offering between nations at war for thousands of years. The woman sneered. 

“Those are bad for the environment,” she said nastily. “It’s okay, I’ll clean it since your pretty little hands have never seen hard work in your life.”

Patrick didn’t even have time to think about whether or not he should be offended at that when, in slow motion, the woman raised the card and began to lick. The dirt. Off.

_Nope!_ was Patrick’s immediate and all-consuming thought as she proceeded to clean the card _thoroughly_ with her fucking tongue. Patrick instantly wanted to run screaming from the library, never to return to customer service again, but he felt like he was superglued to his seat, frozen in place, unable to move or blink or think of anything beyond _what the fuck, just what the actual fuck_.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” someone said from Patrick’s left. The voice was vaguely familiar but Patrick was focused on the feeling of his skin crawling as the woman absolutely went to fucking town on that library card. Patrick was never touching another library card. Patrick was going to _pluck out his eyes_.

“What?” the woman huffed, which, thankfully, meant she was no longer licking actual dirt. For now. Patrick tried to gather himself, tried to force every single frozen muscle to cooperate, and by the time he had managed that, he recognized the voice. 

“The library is unfortunately closed,” Brendon said, in a tone of voice that told Patrick _unfortunately_ was being polite. “Please make your way to the exit.”

“I haven’t been helped!” the woman said, outraged, as Brendon raised a meaningful eyebrow. “It’ll take ten seconds.”

Brendon leaned over and turned off the monitor on Patrick’s computer. 

“Whoops,” he said, with zero inflection. “Our computers have shut off. Please feel free to come back later. We open again tomorrow at ten.”

The woman stared from Brendon to Patrick with a look of pure disbelief on her face, clearly struggling for words but unable to find them. Which was appropriate, because Patrick was struggling to find words for her. After an uncomfortable silence, the woman huffed and stomped away, towards the doors. 

Patrick exhaled slowly, turning his monitor back on and trying not to look at the pile of dirt left on the desk. That wasn’t his problem, not tonight. 

“Thanks,” he said, looking up at Brendon. Brendon gave him a strained smile. Patrick immediately noticed how swollen his eyes were, but he didn’t say anything. “She was straight out of my nightmares.”

“So’s your mom,” Brendon said weakly. Patrick didn’t say anything about that, either, and Brendon cleared his throat, rolling his shoulders back. “Anyway, get the hell out of here. I’m not paying you overtime and I think I overheard something about a date.”

“Those are offensive rumors,” Patrick protested, standing and sliding his phone into his pocket before grabbing his cardigan off the back of the chair. “Perpetuated by jealous coworkers. _I_ do not do such trivial things as _date_.”

“Go,” Brendon said, rolling his eyes. “Go on your not-date. By which I mean go get fucked, you look like you need it. I’ll finish closing up for you.”

“That’s sexual harassment,” Patrick said. Brendon rolled his eyes again, but that was okay. If he was rolling his eyes he wasn’t crying, because Patrick’s heart broke for Brendon enough already. 

“You’re welcome, Patrick,” he said. “No, no, don’t thank me, it’s fine. No, you don’t owe your life to me. No, you don’t need to work a Sunday shift--well, if you insist--”

“Bye!” Patrick said quickly, and made for the backroom door like the cops were on him. He dodged Joe dramatically and flung the staff door open and tumbled into the early evening summer sunshine, breathing in deep like he’d been in prison for years and this was his first taste of freedom. 

Patrick didn’t think he was being overdramatic, not really. 

That wasn’t the point. 

“Hello,” Pete said, as Patrick rounded the corner. He was standing right where he said he would be, dutifully waiting for Patrick to come out. He looked oddly nervous and oddly _neat_, dressed in jeans Patrick would go so far as to say were _washed_, and a short sleeve black and white polo that was just nice enough to tell Patrick that Pete saved it for _special occasions_.

The fact that Pete considered this a _special occasion_ made Patrick’s heart flip funny in his chest and his mouth go a little dry. Cheeks hot, he smiled back when Pete offered a tentative one, and linked his arm with Pete’s. 

“Hi,” Patrick said, and because God did grant him small miracles once in a while, his voice sounded relatively normal. “You look nice.”

Pete looked down at himself like he’d forgotten what he was wearing, then looked up at Patrick. A strand of hair was loose from his bun, and Patrick reached up to tuck it behind his ear. In an instant, Pete turned so red Patrick was worried he might stroke out, but he stayed upright and leaned in to press a quick kiss to Patrick’s cheek. 

“How was your day?” Pete asked, as they fell into step beside each other, making their way down the sidewalk to the city parking lot where Patrick assumed Pete had parked his car. Patrick couldn’t stop staring at Pete, it was like Pete was the sun and Patrick was merely orbiting around him. He swallowed against a dry throat, tried to pick out words, and wound up shrugging. 

“You know,” he said, a little dumbly. “Patron.”

Pete nodded seriously. 

“Yes,” he said, sidestepping Patrick to open his car door for him. Patrick immediately turned bright red and avoided Pete’s gaze for a moment, staring at his shoes before taking the hand Pete offered him and allowing Pete to help him into the car. Patrick was going to _die_, he was sure of it. “I think I witnessed some of those.”

“That’s right,” Patrick said, as if he’d forgotten for a moment what went down earlier with Ryan. “I think you stopped in today? I’m not sure, I was distracted with a book.”

“Ouch,” Pete said, but he was grinning, and he shut the door in Patrick’s smirking face and hustled to the driver’s seat. “So? Where to?”

“Oh, I get to choose?” Patrick asked, and Pete turned the car on. “How kind.”

“I’m a gentleman,” Pete said, and Patrick couldn’t help but grin, tilting his head as he took in Pete’s fake-cocky expression. Patrick could see beneath it, though. Pete was nervous, as nervous as Patrick, and Patrick reached out to tangle their fingers together. 

“I’d love to get dinner with you,” he said, and a flash of panic crossed Pete’s face. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard and tried to play it off. It worked until Patrick pressed a kiss to the back of Pete’s hand and Pete made a strangled, almost squeaking sound, watching Patrick with wide eyes. 

“And?” Pete managed to force out when it became clear Patrick wasn’t going to continue on his own. Patrick basked in Pete’s awestruck expression for a moment, couldn’t help it--those gorgeous eyes, trained on him? He’d take it as long as it was available. 

“I’d love to,” he continued, acutely aware of Pete’s gaze dropping to his lips. “But I have a medical condition.”

“A medical condition?” Pete asked, face adorably screwing up in confusion. “Uh...what kind?”

“It’s very sad,” Patrick said, nodding and fighting a grin. He could just see Pete’s chest hair poking out of the top of the polo he was wearing. Heat rushed to his stomach. “I have to have good exercise before I eat.”

Pete stared at him for a long moment before getting it: Patrick _saw_ him get it, like a lightbulb went off in his eyes, and that mischievous smile Patrick lov--liked so much crept back out as Pete very obviously looked Patrick over with hunger. 

“Well,” he said, throwing the car into gear. “I want you to be healthy. And my house is a block away. Let’s get you some exercise.”

Patrick settled back in the seat with a smirk as Pete drove out of the parking lot, one hand tight on the wheel, the other still holding Patrick’s. Pete stole little glances at Patrick every so often, like he was worried Patrick might disappear. 

Patrick just kept staring at Pete with open adoration. He knew intellectually that at one point he’d hated Pete Wentz’s guts, but it was hard to remember that now, with his heart doing somersaults and a permanent smile on his face. He kept watching Pete as he drove, thinking over and over: _ I’m so lucky. I’m so lucky._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on god, this has literally happened to me. it was HORRIFYING.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete glanced over at him, a question in his eyes, like he still wasn’t sure if Patrick was really into him or not. Personally, Patrick was pretty sure that he was quite obvious, but okay. If Pete needed a refresher course, who was Patrick to judge?
> 
> He strode over to Pete, took a handful of his stupid greasy hair, and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is all for snitches and glitter, this chapter is. i love them.

Pete’s house, upon arriving, instantly struck Patrick as a house belonging to someone who made much more money than he ever would. He glanced over at Pete, unsure if he should start the line of questioning about precisely what kind of freelance work Pete did, but just then Pete chose to take his shirt off and Patrick had much more pressing matters to attend to. 

Pete glanced over at him, a question in his eyes, like he still wasn’t sure if Patrick was really into him or not. Personally, Patrick was pretty sure that he was quite obvious, but okay. If Pete needed a refresher course, who was Patrick to judge?

He strode over to Pete, took a handful of his stupid greasy hair, and kissed him. 

Pete made a noise kind of like _oh!_ and _it’s you!_ all in one and kind of melted into the kiss, hands working their way under Patrick’s shirt to drag greedy fingerprints down his sides. 

Patrick returned the favor, not removing his lips from Pete’s and blindly digging his nails into Pete’s shoulders, raking stinging lines down Pete’s chest. Pete made a guttural noise at that, groaning into Patrick’s mouth, and Patrick felt a thrill of self-satisfaction go through him. 

They broke apart, gasping, and each only lasted for a half second before blurting out, at the same time:

“Fuck me.”

Patrick stared uncertainly at Pete after his brain registered that yes, Pete _had_ said the same thing, and now they were faced with the most awkward problem two people with dicks about to fuck could ever have. 

Pete cocked his head. Patrick stared. Pete licked his lips. Patrick was _so_ hard, dick drilling a hole against the zipper of his jeans, hot and throbbing in the confines it was trapped in. The silence between them as they each tried to decide what to say was borderline painful, but then Pete licked his lips again--Patrick’s eyes were helplessly drawn to the motion--and spoke.

“If I fuck you, can you…_not_ come?” he asked, and Patrick blinked in surprise. Pete was still looking at him with a little uncertainty in his unfairly beautiful eyes. Patrick wanted to slide his gaze down Pete’s body like a second set of hands, take in every inch of toned, tanned skin, every dip and curve, every drop of ink or slight blemish. 

But he couldn’t make himself look, couldn’t do anything but stare at Pete’s face, mouth dry, and try and come up with an answer.

“I can try,” Patrick finally managed to say, holding the three words out like an offering. Pete split into a grin, taking a step forward, closer to Patrick, and sending shivers down Patrick’s spine in the best way. Patrick didn’t move as Pete advanced, wide eyes locked on him, and he shuddered all over when Pete grabbed the bottom of his shirt. 

Undressing took no time at all after that--between their grasping hands and biting kisses, they were both naked in record time. Pete grabbed Patrick around the middle and tossed him gently onto the bed, jumping in after and urging Patrick onto his stomach, pressing burning kisses down Patrick’s spine until he ran gentle hands across Patrick’s ass. 

Patrick got it immediately. 

“You don’t have to,” he said quietly. Yes, he fucking loved getting rimmed. No, he rarely got it. Yes, he was fine if Pete found it gross or something, because he liked Pete way too much to insist on this kind of thing. 

Pete was quiet a moment before pressing a kiss to Patrick’s tailbone--Patrick shuddered--and gently took Patrick’s hips in hand, shifting him up enough so his back arched and a hot flush took over his face and chest. Pete trailed fingers down Patrick’s sides and took a deep breath. 

“I get the feeling that you don’t get asked often what you like,” Pete said quietly. Patrick swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat, painfully pressing against his vocal chords. His eyes stung a little--must have been allergies. That was all. “And that _sucks_. I know how it feels to never get asked, but believe me when I say that half the pleasure I get in bed is from letting others tell me what they want. You don’t have to hide, okay? I doubt you could say anything that would send me running.”

God, his eyes burned again. So inconvenient. He swallowed hard, trying to force that lump down enough so he could speak normally, so he didn’t sound minutes from crying. Because he wasn’t. Because that would be ridiculous. 

“You sound like a sex therapist,” was what he finally managed to say. Thankfully, his voice sounded mostly normal, if a tiny bit thick. “Either that or a romance writer.”

“Meet a lot of romance writers?” Pete asked. There was a strange tone in his voice. Patrick frowned, but before he could investigate, Pete put his broad, flat palms on Patrick’s ass again and was spreading him open, making his toes curl in anticipation. Patrick’s heart fluttered in his chest and Pete exhaled, air sweeping over him and his exposed hole, which twitched. “Or sex therapists?”

“You jealous?” Patrick managed to force out, breathless, and he mostly imagined Pete’s smirk but it made his cock jump anyway. He gasped, hips rocking forward hard, as Pete lightly nipped at his ass before tightening his grip. 

“I don’t need to be,” Pete said lowly. “Because you’re about to forget about any other guy on Earth but me.”

Patrick’s mouth went dry and his cock hardened more than he ever thought possible, but before he could say anything or ask Pete where the hell a line that good had come from, because it was better than anything he’d ever read, Pete licked into him and his concentration shattered. 

Patrick made a guttural noise he couldn’t bite back as Pete’s tongue prodded his hole gently, experimentally, like he was testing unknown waters, and, finding no danger, his tongue sunk into Patrick. Patrick almost squealed, voice going high pitched, squirming in Pete’s grip. It was a bit too early to enter him, but the burn was quickly ceding ground to lightning-strike heat as Pete’s tongue got bolder. 

Patrick gasped, drool slipping out of his mouth and running down his chin, soaking into the pillows he was clutching for dear life as he heard the snap of a lube bottle and Pete let a finger join the exploration. 

“Oh God, oh God,” Patrick moaned, gut clenching and groaning as Pete slid a second in. Again, probably too early, but it had Patrick grinding his cock nearly desperately into the mattress so it didn’t matter. 

Patrick couldn’t stay still, not for a second. He twitched, he squirmed, he writhed as Pete took him apart, piece by piece with his fingers and tongue and sheer determined willpower. 

“Stop,” Patrick gasped. Pete crooked his fingers and Patrick whined, reaching behind him blindly and pushing at Pete’s head. “Pete--oh God, fuck, Pete! Stop! I’m gonna--fuck, I’m two seconds from coming, I--”

Pete stopped and Patrick made a disappointed, cheated noise despite knowing he’d asked for just that. He was shaking a little, nerves all firing at once, the ghost of Pete’s touch making him a little desperate. He sucked in a deep breath and rolled over, face to face with Pete’s insufferable smirk as he wiped wetness from his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“You’re welcome,” he said, smirking, and if Patrick could force his muscles to cooperate, he would smack him. As it was, he lay there kind of dumbly, cock hard between them demanding attention, leaking like a faucet, staring at Pete’s perfect, stupid face and thinking that that gut feeling that was all he could focus on might well be love, after every protest, after every denial. Love. Pete’s gaze felt like a spotlight, Patrick felt warm underneath it. 

“You,” Patrick managed, trying to point accusingly, but all his body cared about was his erection and Pete, two feet from him. “You took my soul.”

“Took your soul?” Pete asked, amused. “Through your ass?”

“Yes,” Patrick insisted, and Pete laughed his gorgeous laugh, emphasizing the little wrinkles by his eyes and the dimple on one cheek and fuck, Patrick loved this man so much it almost scared him. How Pete managed to get him from loathing to loving in a handful of days was a mystery, but it was a mystery Patrick didn’t want to unravel. “I’m gonna be a soulless librarian from now on. And it’s your fault.”

“I see,” Pete said, smirking, trailing his gentle touch down Patrick’s sides until he got to Patrick’s hips. He squeezed. Patrick’s dick twitched. “How can I ever make up for this transgression?”

Patrick’s mouth went dry. He tried to shift, to squirm, but he was held still in Pete’s unyielding grip, breath caught in his lungs, like a rabbit caught in a trap.

Except not exactly, because rabbits didn’t _want_ to be caught in a trap, and right now there was nowhere else Patrick wanted to be. 

“You’ll have to be creative,” Patrick said, voice stupid and breathy and whiny. He swallowed heart, heart fluttering somewhere near his Adam’s apple. “Think—think really hard.”

“I am thinking hard,” Pete said, winking, pushing his hips forward to drag his cock along Patrick’s thigh. Patrick somehow managed to roll his eyes. Pete ducked down to kiss Patrick, deep and slow, drawing a helpless noise out of Patrick as he pulled away. “I’ve got it.”

“Got what?” Patrick asked, having temporarily lost use of the entirety of his brain cells. Pete smirked at him, reaching for the lube and drizzling some in his palm. 

“Got an idea,” Pete said, and took ahold of Patrick’s cock. Patrick keened, head rolling back, hips pushing up into Pete’s perfect, tight fist. Jerking Patrick off was not exactly how Patrick envisioned this going, but whatever, he had all of Pete right there in bed with him, so carry on. “You ready?”

“Huh?” Patrick asked, forcing his eyes open. Pete let go of Patrick’s cock—Patrick made an unhappy noise, totally involuntarily—and pushed himself to his knees. Patrick frowned and opened his mouth to ask again, but just then Pete straddled Patrick and lined up Patrick’s cock with his hole. “Oh m’ God.”

“I’ll take that as a complement,” Pete said, and sank down onto Patrick’s aching cock. 

Patrick bit his lip against a shout, forcing his heavy arms to move so he could hold onto Pete’s waist, thumbs pressed in right under the jut of Pete’s hipbones, where that stupid tattoo was, slightly obscured by scattered wiry hair leading down to his cock, which bounced as Pete began fucking himself in earnest with Patrick’s own cock. 

“Oh God, oh fuck,” Patrick whispered. It had belatedly occurred to him that they hadn’t stretched Pete or anything, and the tight grip of him was enough to make Patrick’s eyes roll back. For his part, Pete didn’t seem concerned about the lack of prep—his eyes were shut, hands spread to brace himself on Patrick’s stomach, and his cock was leaking so much Patrick wondered if he’d have any come left. 

Still, Patrick felt a little lazy, felt like he was taking the feeling Pete was giving him with no return, so he tightened his grip on Pete’s hips and tilted him back, changing the angle slightly. 

It worked, and Pete cried out, knees digging into Patrick’s ribs as he clenched. He didn’t stop moving, just clenched and moaned and chewed at his lip until Patrick took a handful of Pete’s hair and pulled him down for a kiss. 

Pete came with a shout into Patrick’s mouth, whole body shivering on top of Patrick, and Patrick pulled Pete fully onto his cock, pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Pete’s sweaty temple, and came. 

“Oh God, oh fuck,” Pete whined, collapsing on top of Patrick, a lean, sweaty weight that Patrick couldn’t get enough of. Patrick’s softening cock slipped out of Pete and Pete made a breathy, gaspy noise, and stilled. 

The bedroom was silent after that, but not an uncomfortable silence. It was a warm silence, heavy like a weighted blanket, lying securely over them. They were pressed close, so close that Patrick could feel Pete’s chest rise and fall against his own, felt Pete’s breath on his neck, felt his pulse start to return to normal. 

Pete’s stupid long hair was in Patrick’s face, but Patrick couldn’t bring himself to care. He trailed his fingers through the sweat collecting in the small of Pete’s back, and Pete hummed, content. 

“So,” Patrick said eventually, and the silence broke with the feeling of a balloon popping. Pete made an inquisitive noise but didn’t life his head from Patrick’s chest or move an inch. Not that Patrick wanted him to. He was warm across his front, and his soft, silken sheets were whispering against Patrick’s skin like they had a secret. Patrick cleared his throat. “Freelance?”

Pete groaned. 

“Don’t ruin the moment by talking about _work_,” he said, finally lifting his head to glare blearily at Patrick. “This—this is _bliss_, don’t take my bliss away, I’ll sue you.”

Patrick snorted, tangling his fingers in Pete’s hair and combing through it, watching with nothing short of adoration as Pete’s eyes slipped closed. They were quiet again for a moment, soft cocks pressed together, Patrick stretched out his free hand to grasp the expensive-feeling sheets underneath him and sighed, but in a good way. The end of the day sigh. The kind of sigh you’d make after a nice meal. The sigh of _oh God, I hope you stay here forever._

Simple sighs. 

“I can’t help it,” Patrick said finally, grinning as Pete nuzzled into his neck and lightly nipped the skin. “You just made me come so hard I can’t see straight.”

Pete huffed a laugh, poking out his tongue to soothe the barely-there sting of his teeth. After a moment, he looked up, a devilish gleam in his eye. 

“Oh no,” he said, pushing himself to his hands and knees and crawling until they were face to face, Pete hovering above Patrick, smirking. “That’s terrible. Do you think if I make you come again, it’ll go back to normal?”

“That’s the worst line you’ve ever used,” Patrick said, laughing, squirming as Pete attacked his neck, scattering small love bites everywhere. “You’ve—_oh_—you’ve used a lot of bad lines, but that’s the worst.”

“I’ll just have to do better then,” Pete said, and kissed Patrick hard, chasing all thoughts out of Patrick’s head for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know that happy feeling you’ve got right now? yeah. tomorrow is saturday. better hang on to that happy feeling. just a tip.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How is talking about my personal life helping right now?” Patrick asked. He poked the chair one more time before crossing gingerly over to the window, practically on tip toes, to peek around the dusty forum room curtains at the truly obscene amount of people gathered outside. It was difficult to tell who was protesting, who were journalists, and who were just waiting for the event in--oh--_ten minutes_. Patrick glanced toward the patio door fretfully, but Joe, standing watch, shook his head. 
> 
> Still no Kingston Lewis. No Kingston Lewis and an enormous crowd outside the forum room doors. Patrick had no idea how many people were in the main library doing normal library things, but that wasn’t his concern right now. He stared into the mass of people like they were hypnotizing him. Worst hypnosis ever.
> 
> “Is your precious porno writer standing us up?” Brendon asked. He meant it in jest, but the note of concern in his voice was real. Concern for the library or concern for Patrick’s feelings, Patrick had no idea, but it was nice to know that somewhere under twelve pounds of pomade and three feet of forehead was a human being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember you all love me. just remember that. you know. in case anything....happens...

Patrick woke up the next morning aware of the following things: one, he was still naked, pressed against (and probably stuck to, given how many times they’d come last night) Pete, drooling on his shoulder. Two, it was barely sunrise, actual birds chirping outside like he was in a damn romance novel. Three, he didn’t want to get up at minimum for the rest of the day. Four, _fuck_ it was _Saturday_!

He slipped out of bed as gingerly as possible, considering the octopus his….boyfriend? had become. (Wow he had to examine _that_ thought later.) His skin was indeed sticky and he made a face at himself before reaching for his thankfully not dead phone to check the time. 

5:23. He breathed a sigh of relief, rolling his head back to stare at the ceiling for a long moment, relishing the stretch in his neck, before looking back at the bed and the almost obnoxiously spread out lump that was Pete Wentz. A smile crept across his face. Aw, crap, there he went again, being _soft_.

He reached down and grabbed a shirt from the floor--his or Pete’s, it didn’t actually matter--and flung it hard at Pete’s head, smirking as he flinched in surprise and briefly fought with it before tossing it to the ground in victory and sitting up, rubbing his eyes. 

“What the fuck,” he said sleepily. Patrick forced himself to frown, but then Pete yawned and Patrick’s heard damn near melted. Fuck. 

“I have to go to work,” he said. He was going for stern but it didn’t really work, especially as Pete rolled onto his stomach, resting his head on his crossed arms and blinking up at Patrick. He was beautiful. Fuck, but this time with _feeling._ “I have no clothes here. Do you see the problem?”

“It’s like two am,” Pete mumbled. “There’s no need for you to have clothes. C’mere, lay back down and I’ll blow you in a bit.”

He emphasized this by sliding one arm out from under his head to pat the space next to him, which, for a moment, was so tempting Patrick almost lost his train of thought. 

Almost.

“It’s almost six,” he corrected, instead of taking Pete up on his offer. “And some of us have to work.”

“Hey,” Pete protested, but he sounded too tired for it to have any real effect. He gestured at nothing before his arm fell limply back down to the mattress and he yawned. “I have to work too.”

“You freelance,” Patrick said, and Pete made a face. “You can wake up any time for that. I, however, need to be at work at 9am at the _latest_.”

“Okay,” Pete said, through another jaw-cracking yawn. “But it’s currently six so come back to bed.”

“No,” Patrick said, fighting a grin. “I have to go home. Shower and change. I’m covered in your come.”

“You’re welcome,” Pete said. His eyes were drooping but he squinted up at Patrick. “Why are you so insistent on getting to work on time?”

“It’s Saturday,” Patrick said. He grabbed another shirt from the floor--he was pretty sure it was his, but couldn’t really tell, not that he cared--and pulled it on. “AKA my event.”

There was a long pause wherein Pete didn’t reply, seemingly processing Patrick’s words in his sleep-filled brain. Patrick used the time to find his jeans and slide them on, wrinkling his nose at the feeling of dirty clothes going back on his body. He _so_ needed a shower. 

“Oh,” Pete said finally, and there was a tone in his voice that Patrick couldn’t quite read. Heaving a sigh, he rolled over. “That’s right.”

“You still coming?” Patrick asked, curious. He shoved his feet back in his shoes sans socks and watched Pete rub his eyes tiredly. Pete heaved another sigh and stretched before rubbing his eyes again. 

“Of course,” Pete said, and the weird tone was still there, but Patrick was too busy lighting up inside to pay much attention to it. “I have to go and embarrass you.”

“I look forward to it,” Patrick said honestly, and Petr cracked a tired but sweet smile. Patrick’s heart flipped. “Get up.”

“Why do _I_ have to get up?” Pete complained, resting his arms above his head. Patrick followed the line of lean muscle down his upper arms, disappearing into the patch of hair in his armpits, neatly groomed in contrast with the rest of Pete, and his mouth went dry. “You’re the one who wants to go to work so early.”

“Home first,” Patrick corrected. “And you drove me here.”

“I remember someone telling me that cars were bad for the environment like, two days ago,” Pete pointed out, cracking one eye open to give Patrick what he clearly thought was a glare but really was a soft look. 

“That was Tuesday,” Patrick said. “And I was under the influence, you can’t hold it against me.”

“I bet you’re still contagious,” Pete said. “I bet I’m gonna get sick next.”

“Get up and drive me home,” Patrick said, fighting a grin. “You jerk.”

“Jerk? Me?” Pete asked, sounding outraged. “I was _just about_ to get up. Now it’s going to cost you.”

“Cost me?” Patrick asked, fighting laughter this time. “Cost me what?”

“Come here and find out,” Pete said, pushing himself up and moving quicker than Patrick expected to grab the front of Patrick’s shirt and drag him back down to the mattress, kissing him soundly before Patrick could protest, all tongue and teeth and Pete’s soft, wandering hands making Patrick shudder where he laid. 

Alright, he thought, squirming as Pete bit down Patrick’s neck with the sure-minded focus of a man thinking with his dick and his dick only. What was thirty more minutes?

\-----

“See,” Brendon was saying. Patrick _hated him_. Patrick felt like he said this at least once a day. Patrick wondered how it never seemed to be untrue. “See, this is why you should have shown up a little early instead of spending the night at Patron Pete’s.”

“You have no proof as to where I may or may not have spent the night,” Patrick huffed. He was getting warm under his cardigan. It wasn’t the one he’d planned on wearing, but he’d rushed through getting ready for work in order to make it on time (okay, only five minutes late) to work at all, so the fact that his clothes at least matched was a miracle in itself. He reached out and pointedly nudged a chair into better alignment, ignoring Brendon as he rolled his eyes. “Also I was right on time.”

“Right,” Brendon said. Patrick firmly told himself that he _liked_ this job and thus, would be unhappy to be fired. Therefore, he couldn’t actually smack Brendon in his stupidly smug face. Brendon reached out and poked Patrick’s neck, where Patrick just _knew_ he had a new hickey. “No proof whatsoever.”

“How is talking about my personal life helping right now?” Patrick asked. He poked the chair one more time before crossing gingerly over to the window, practically on tip toes, to peek around the dusty forum room curtains at the truly obscene amount of people gathered outside. It was difficult to tell who was protesting, who were journalists, and who were just waiting for the event in--oh--_ten minutes_. Patrick glanced toward the patio door fretfully, but Joe, standing watch, shook his head. 

Still no Kingston Lewis. No Kingston Lewis and an enormous crowd outside the forum room doors. Patrick had no idea how many people were in the main library doing normal library things, but that wasn’t his concern right now. He stared into the mass of people like they were hypnotizing him. Worst hypnosis ever.

“Is your precious porno writer standing us up?” Brendon asked. He meant it in jest, but the note of concern in his voice was real. Concern for the library or concern for Patrick’s feelings, Patrick had no idea, but it was nice to know that somewhere under twelve pounds of pomade and three feet of forehead was a human being. 

“He might just be intimidated,” Patrick mumbled. It sounded as weak as it felt. He glanced outside again, finding it near impossible to look away, and took a huge breath, turning to face Brendon a little hesitantly. “Okay. We should let them in. Maybe that will chill things out?”

Brendon shrugged. 

“Your guess is as good as mine,” he said honestly. “We didn’t go over this in Branch Manager school.”

“There’s isn’t _Branch Manager school_,” Patrick protested. Brendon rolled his eyes and headed towards the front door, hips sashaying ridiculously, and Patrick scrambled to catch up. No way was he not going to be there when the doors opened for his event, protestors or no protestors. 

Brendon gave him a side-eyed glance that Patrick couldn’t quite read. For the first time, Patrick noticed Brendon’s clothes--instead of stupid tight girl jeans and a different ridiculous graphic tee every day, he was wearing actual slacks and a neat button up shirt, looking like an actual manager. Patrick didn’t know if he’d dressed up to make himself look good or to make Patrick look good, but Patrick was so tense right now he chose to believe it was an actual thoughtful gesture. 

Patrick cleared his throat. He stood up a little more straight than usual, tugging at his cardigan to smooth it out, and took a deep breath before nodding at Joe, who bit his lip but pushed the door open, kicking the stand down to hold it, and fleeing into the main library. 

Patrick barely had time to think _can’t blame him_ before a sheer tsunami of sound hit him and Brendon, sending Patrick staggering a couple steps back in shock before he collected himself. The noise was so deafening Patrick couldn’t make out a single word. It was just layers and layers of sound, from the press, from the protestors, even from the people who’d come to the event. 

Judging by the looks on their faces, they were probably shouting questions about why the other two groups were there, but their voices were lost in the cacophony. Brendon’s hand landed on Patrick’s shoulder and squeezed, a sort of supportive, I’m-with-you kind of squeeze, and Patrick’s heart was beating hard in his chest as he stepped onto the patio on shaky legs and gestured to the patrons he thought were actually attending, stepping to the side to allow them to quickly begin filing in. 

They were trying to interrogate Brendon, Patrick could tell, but bless than man’s heart he just kept them moving, one after another inside. Patrick kept moving down the line, making sure everyone was okay, also trying to keep them moving as much as possible. The sooner they got everyone in, the sooner they could shut the doors on everyone else. 

“Hey _Patrick_!” 

It was a horribly familiar voice, but Patrick’s brain was being pulled in so many directions like silly putty in the hands of a toddler. He jerked his head around, scanning the assembled protestors for any familiar face, anyone who stood out. He didn’t immediately see anyone, so returned his focus to the line of spectators. 

“I’m sorry!” he shouted, and two women gave him sympathetic looks. “I’m so sorry, just head on inside.”

“It’s okay,” one said back, or, at least, Patrick assumed she said back. Patrick couldn’t hear and they moved with the line, so Patrick lost them anyway. He could see the end of the line of spectators, at least, if he craned his neck and stood on tip toe. About twenty more people, give or take, and then it would be okay. Even if they had to start late. 

“Patrick!” 

The fucking voice again, and if Patrick could just _think_ for a moment he’d for sure be able to place it, but concentrating on anything in this overwhelming madness seemed impossible at best. He looked around again, but this time, his gaze landed on a familiar face: thin, with high cheekbones and disdainful eyes, lounging amongst the protestors like he owned them, hands in his pockets and a smirk on his face. 

There were a million things Patrick wanted to say to Ryan Ross, formerly Ryan Ross-Urie, but none of them were professional, and it was probably too loud for Ryan to hear, and he didn’t want to get Brendon’s attention even a little. He settled on his nastiest glare, waving the line forward without looking at it, scowl taking over his face. 

It didn’t deter Ryan. In fact, Ryan laughed out loud--an action recognizable only by the comic over-acting of his shoulders and the smirk on his face--and gestured to the protestors. 

Ryan was saying something, probably something nasty, but he wasn’t shouting loud enough to hear. Patrick breathed out through his nose to try and avoid violence, tearing his eyes from Ryan’s stupid, smug face in order to take stock of the protestors. 

There were some signs, things Patrick expected, like _PORN ISN’T LITERATURE_ and _YOUR TAXES FUND PORNOGRAPHY_ and _HOMO SEX IS SIN_, all weilded by angry, red-faced white people who probably didn’t vaccinate their kids and also fed their cats vegan diets. They were all shouting, words lost in the abyss, and there were bottles of water and cups of some yellow substance Patrick hoped to God was lemonade, and Patrick was struck with an overwhelming urge to get everyone inside, like, yesterday. 

This was not going to wind up well. There were about ten people left to enter, Brendon clearly working hard to get them in, stealing glances at the protestors every few seconds. He didn’t seem to have noticed Ryan yet, thank God. Patrick exhaled and began backing up, towards the door, bringing up the end of the line and so tense he didn’t think he was even breathing anymore. 

A fresh wave of noise was the only answer to Patrick’s first few retreating steps. Patrick doubted they were even _using_ words. He suspected they were just making angry noises, like a cornered bull. The sign-waving got a little more aggressive, as if Patrick hadn’t seen them already, and in the middle of it all, cup of mysterious yellow liquid in his hand and a smirk on his face, was Ryan. 

Ryan held the plastic cup up and flipped Patrick off before hurling it in his direction. 

Patrick flinched, the cup landing a few feet away and splattering his shoes and pants. That wasn’t such a big deal. 

Or wouldn’t have been if the rest of the group hadn’t taken Ryan’s actions as a signal to do the same.

It happened all at once; Patrick was standing, stock still, staring at Ryan with disbelieving eyes, and then all hell broke loose. Patrick flinched, stumbling back, and a cup hit him in the head, harder than he thought it could hit, what was thankfully lemonade spilling down his face and soaking his shirt. He was hit a couple other times, he could vaguely tell, in his stomach and legs, but his eyes had begun burning from the lemonade and suddenly, it was all he could focus on.

There was so much. So much happening all at once. Patrick’s hair was wet from the lemonade, the noise of everyone shouting was overwhelming and deafening, and Patrick was pretty sure he might actually pass out. He tried to open his eyes, wincing at the burn, just to see what was going on. If he was safe. 

Out of the corner of his eye, vision blurry, he saw Brendon hustling innocent patrons into the safety of the library, shirt soaked from being nailed with drinks, too. Joe and Andy were helping him, trying to force the protestors back, and Patrick was alone in the middle of it all, stuck between two armies ready to battle, waving a flag and begging for peace. 

Something struck him hard in the head again and he yelped, flinching, throwing his arms up over his head to protect himself, too little, too late. Shouts erupted, the unbearable cacophony growing louder, and Patrick squeezed his eyes shut again, trying to keep his balance. Someone grabbed his arm and he flinched and stumbled as he tried to pull away, but they wrapped their arm around his middle and held him steady, comforting. Patrick tried to draw breath, tried to open his eyes to see what was going on, but he was so overwhelmed it hurt. 

“Stop right now!” someone shouted, voice ugly and furious, and the noise, surprisingly, died a little. Patrick wrinkled his forehead--he knew that voice. Where did he know that voice from? “Are you all _insane_? Peaceful protest is one thing, but assault is another! How dare you?”

The noise died down a little more, like the protestors hadn’t expected to be directly confronted, or maybe whoever had rescued him was just that intimidating, but Patrick didn’t care, really. The commotion had died down enough that Patrick could take a full breath at least, but the arm around him didn’t falter. Patrick’s head ached. He knew that the press was behind him, taking pictures and documenting this entire shitshow and Patrick was pretty sure he was about to see his career go down the toilet. He failed. He failed so _badly_.

“Wait,” a journalist called out, and the remaining cacophony of voices abruptly went silent, leaving Patrick’s ears ringing. Whoever was helping Patrick twisted to look at the journalist, Patrick could feel their body move, and Patrick tried to focus on his breathing. In and out. This was _fine_. “Wait, oh my god, it’s you!”

“Me?” the person said, sounding a little panicked. Patrick _knew that voice_. Who was it? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I interviewed you!” the journalist said. “Years ago! You are _insanely_ brave to come out here and stop this. Wow.”

“I’m no one,” the person said frantically. He was pulling Patrick close like he was afraid someone would take him and run, or that Patrick would run, though Patrick could barely stand up at the moment. “Please, let me get him inside.”

“This headline will be incredible,” the journalist said, clearly thrilled. “Kingston Lewis interferes in protest to save librarian.”

“Kingston Lewis?” another journalist said, and the voices started up again, from behind Patrick this time, loud and excited and demanding, and Patrick forced his eyes open so he could put a name to the voice he _knew_ that he knew. 

So he could see Kingston Lewis for the first time. Kingston Lewis, his favorite author, someone very few people had ever seen face to face. The author Patrick connected with in undergrad, who gave him the courage to come out, who Patrick had been wanting to meet for _years_.

The sun was bright and he squinted against it, blinking back the spots in his vision to look over, look up, to his savior, to whoever had a death grip on him, to _Kingston Lewis_. It was hard to believe that the actual Kingston Lewis would charge into the protest to save a stranger, but as Patrick locked eyes on the man beside him, he suddenly lost all coherent thought in his head.

His heart stopped. His gut clenched. His heart plunged straight into the floor and he staggered back as much as he could while being held, staring in pure disbelief at the person who’d stepped into a violent protest to protect Patrick. The person who’s voice Patrick knew. The person the press identified as _the_ Kingston Lewis.

The person staring at him with warm, honey eyes, a look of terror all over his face, grip still tight on Patrick. 

The person Patrick had been dating and fucking and talking to for the past few days. 

Pete.

The press surged forward and Pete’s grip faltered on Patrick. He took the opportunity to slip free, pure adrenaline and shock taking over, pushing through the crowd and back to the library. 

Where he never should have left in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow who would have thought??? not me!!!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m guessing you didn’t know,” Brendon said, finally breaking the quiet. The fan hummed on. There was a hole in Brendon’s jeans. It didn’t look like a fashion hole. It looked like Brendon might not have even known it was there. Patrick couldn’t tear his eyes away from it. Couldn’t meet Brendon’s gaze. 
> 
> He took a shuddering breath. 
> 
> “And you did?” he asked. The jeans looked old. Patrick wondered if Brendon had extra clothes stashed here. It seemed like such a Brendon thing to do. Brendon sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one’s for my girl snitches. hope you feel better. ❤️

Patrick hadn’t really moved from the floor of the staff bathroom. He didn’t know what time it was, he’d left his phone somewhere and he didn’t really care, anyway. He was reasonably sure they wouldn’t have closed without locating him, but that didn’t tell him anything, really. Just that it was any time between about 12:30, when his life ended, and 6:00, when the branch closed. His clothes had begun to dry along with his hair, sticky and stiff with sugar, probably standing off his head ridiculously, but he was in the bathroom, so whatever. 

He rolled his head back, hitting the tile wall with a soft thunk, and stared up at the ceiling. One of the fluorescent bulbs was out, and the remaining light was flickering every so often. The sound of the fan was enough background noise that Patrick couldn’t hear anything from outside the door. It was just him, the spiderwebs in the corner, the sink, the toilet, and his broken fucking heart. 

It wasn’t that Pete was Kingston Lewis, he thought, picking at a stray thread on his cardigan. Not really. He could have handled Pete being Kingston Lewis. Had Pete _at any point_ thought to tell him that it was him, actually, that Patrick constantly waxed rhapsodic about, Patrick might have actually found it funny. Honest. He would have been annoyed maybe, but he would have laughed eventually. 

No, now Patrick’s mind was occupied with one thing and one thing only--what _exactly_ had Pete--_Kingston_\--planned to do? Just...show up? At the event? Without a warning? Was he planning on _humiliating_ Patrick? Was he--and this was the worst thought of all, worse than the stray thread currently unraveling one of Patrick’s favorite cardigans--was he just dating Patrick for book material? 

He didn’t know which thoughts were logical and which weren’t. He kept replaying the look on Pete--Kingston--that _asshole’s_ face, over and over, and the look was what sealed Patrick’s feelings of betrayal, really. 

He’d looked panicked. He’d looked desperate to not be found out. Why would he act like that if he actually liked--loved--God, _cared_ about Patrick the way Patrick had--_did_ care about him?

It was all too much. It was horrible and frustrating and confusing and Patrick just wanted to scream until he had no voice left because fuck! His emotions were complicated and overwhelming and he sort of didn’t want to exist in a physical form for a while. He had enough vacation time. Maybe he could take a vacation to fucking Mars and never come back. 

“Patrick?” someone called from the other side of the door, emphasizing it with a hesitant knock. “Can I come in?”

“Time to close?” Patrick managed to ask, instead of any rational response, and there was a long pause before the door cracked open and Brendon poked his head through. 

He looked, and Patrick should have figured this, like he _hadn’t_ had lemonade thrown at him, let alone the possibility that he actually saw his ex. He was wearing a different shirt, Patrick could tell, and when Patrick didn’t tell him to leave, he sighed and slipped the rest of the way into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him and sitting on the ground across from Patrick. 

A moment of silence passed. Patrick shifted on the ground uncomfortably. It was just weird, sitting on the floor of the staff bathroom with your boss after your life got turned upside down in front of an audience. 

But there they were. 

“I’m guessing you didn’t know,” Brendon said, finally breaking the quiet. The fan hummed on. There was a hole in Brendon’s jeans. It didn’t look like a fashion hole. It looked like Brendon might not have even known it was there. Patrick couldn’t tear his eyes away from it. Couldn’t meet Brendon’s gaze. 

He took a shuddering breath. 

“And you did?” he asked. The jeans looked old. Patrick wondered if Brendon had extra clothes stashed here. It seemed like such a Brendon thing to do. Brendon sighed. 

“I thought you knew,” he admitted quietly. Patrick stared blankly. He thought he should have some sort of emotional reaction to finding _that_ out, but all he felt was numb. “I honestly thought you knew. If I knew he hadn’t said anything, I would have. I swear.”

“How did you know?” Patrick asked. His voice was monotone. He flexed his fingers before curling them around his knees. Brendon was wearing different shoes, too. Maybe he’d actually gone home while Patrick locked himself in the bathroom like a sixteen year old. Was this real life?

He dug his nails into his knees and felt the pressure even through his pants. He imagined his fingernails creating little crescent moons on his skin, pretending he could feel the sting when in reality, he felt nothing. 

“A combination of things,” Brendon said, rubbing the back of his neck and sighing. He was staring at the tile floor with the same intensity Patrick was staring at Brendon with, and a long moment passed before Brendon seemingly forced his head up to look at Patrick. “He went to my college. Undergrad, not grad. I thought I vaguely recognized him so I looked him up in my yearbooks and his full name was listed.”

“His full name?” Patrick asked, not entirely sure how that made sense or connected at all. His thoughts were floating in a wide pool of nothingness, and it was hard to concentrate to feel any emotion, really. As quickly as the surprise came on, it melted away, leaving Patrick once again floating in a pool of nothing. 

For a long few moments, Brendon stared at the cracked tile floor of the bathroom, fingers twitching like he wanted to trace the lines and count the pieces, like that was a preferable activity to telling Patrick anything at all about Pete--Kingston--_whoever_. 

Finally, Brendon sucked in a quick breath, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth. His gaze flitted up from the floor to Patrick’s face. Patrick tried to make his muscles cooperate, to scowl or frown or anything, but his face felt frozen like a mask and his body felt like it was going to join it. Frozen in time, in the staff bathroom, with a broken heart. 

Nauseatingly poetic. 

“So,” Brendon said. “I met Ryan in undergrad.”

Patrick blinked. That wasn’t even kind of where Patrick thought Brendon would go. He tried to say something, anything, but before he could figure out how to unfreeze himself, Brendon was continuing. 

“Same class as…” Brendon said, ending with a gesture Patrick took to mean _Pete_. “Anyway. It’s why I remember the class so well. It was where I met Ryan, too. And Pete, he was top of the class. Ryan _hated_ him. I kept my mouth shut about my personal opinions because I liked Ryan too much.”

Brendon shrugged awkwardly, like it didn’t matter that he just admitted he’d changed his whole personality for Ryan from the get go. Like it wasn’t important that Ryan was that goddamn atrocious, to be mad if Brendon thought differently than him. 

Patrick blinked sudden wetness out of his eyes. He didn’t know where to begin with anything Brendon had just said. He didn’t know where to even pick up his metaphorical gloves and start picking at the threads of this story until he could think clearly. 

Brendon was watching him carefully, like he knew Patrick was working overtime to figure out what to say. His fingers traced the cracks in the tile again, over and over, long, elegant fingers, shaking slightly. Patrick opened his mouth only to close it immediately, swallowing past the dryness of his mouth and throat in order to make his vocal chords work. 

“So he was always an asshole,” Patrick finally said, voice a little hoarse. He cleared his throat and continued. “Ryan, I mean.”

Brendon cracked the ghost of a smile and nodded. He picked his hand up from the cold floor and crossed his legs, resting his hands in his lap as he sighed. 

“It’s taken me a while, you know,” he said. Patrick blinked. “To get over feeling like I _did something_ to make Ryan leave, that it was my fault, instead of realizing that he was an asshole who didn’t like that I earned more money than him or had different opinions than him or wouldn’t just shut up and be pretty like in college.”

“Ryan’s a fucking douchebag,” Patrick said, for lack of anything else to say. It was true, but the words hung hollow in the air, Patrick unable to figure out what emotion he should inject them with. He felt like all the anger he’d ever possessed was gone, vanished in favor of miserable heartache that just _lingered_. 

“Pete’s not Ryan,” Brendon said, and Patrick flinched a little without meaning to because there it was, wasn’t it? There was the whole…_lesson_ or whatever, that was what Brendon was leading up to. Pete wasn’t Ryan. 

Pete was...he was a fucking liar, that was for sure, and he had misjudgement the size of fucking Mars or whatever, but he wasn’t--he wasn’t _mean_. Patrick could tell by the look on his face when he was revealed, he could tell by every moment he’d ever spent with Pete, including when Pete was just an annoying patron. Patrick didn’t know if it was just because he was _still_ so _fucking_ in love with him or if it was genuine, but Patrick didn’t think Pete set out to hurt him.

Of course, that didn’t change the fact that he _had_ hurt him. 

And that was why Patrick was where he was at. Sitting on the cold floor of the staff bathroom, across from his boss, analyzing the past week for any clues to the detonation that happened today. 

Brendon sighed, cracking his knuckles and looking Patrick in the eye. 

“I’ll come get you before we close,” he said, and stood, pulling down his shirt into some semblance of order. Patrick just stared at him, a question thick and heavy on his tongue, but it wasn’t until Brendon had one hand on the door handle that Patrick managed to spit it out. 

“What was it?” he asked. Brendon looked at him, a little crease between his eyes. Patrick swallowed past a throat like sandpaper. “His name. That tipped you off.”

Brendon tilted his head and surveyed Patrick for a long moment before sighing. 

“His real name is Pete,” Brendon said, and Patrick’s heart skipped and jumped. He stared at Brendon wordlessly until Brendon continued. “Well, Peter. Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz. He just reversed his middle names.”

Patrick didn’t have any kind of response to that, but Brendon looked like he didn’t expect one. With one final glance at him, Brendon opened the bathroom door and slipped through, letting it click quietly closed behind him. Patrick stared at the door, mind tripping over itself in a rush to try and figure out how the fuck he felt about that. 

How the fuck he felt about anything. 

Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz. 

Pete Wentz.

Kingston Lewis. 

Patrick let out a shuddering sigh and dropped his head to his knees. 

\----


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick stared at Smith for a long moment until Smith sighed again, standing back up on both feet and dropping his arms to his sides, slipping his hands into his pockets. 
> 
> “I don’t know why he didn’t just tell you,” Smith said, a sort of naked honesty in his voice that took Patrick by surprise, a little. “I have no explanation except that I’ve known him for almost ten years and he can be a fucking moron sometimes. I know he didn’t mean to hurt you. I also know you have the right to be hurt anyway. I don’t know what else there is to say other than I know Kingston--Pete--whoever you want to know him as--I know he’s a good person. Okay?”
> 
> “Okay,” Patrick echoed, voice a little hollow, unable to figure out any other word in the entire English language. Smith looked at Patrick for a long moment before wrenching his gaze to Brendon, who was still standing behind the desk, watching the exchange quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to all my quarantined readers and all my essential readers!!! i love you all!!! hang in there.

“You know,” Joe said carefully. Patrick responded with another pointed stamp, picking up the black Sharpie and inking out the barcode on the book he’d decided to sacrifice to the big library in the sky. The squeak of the pen on the mylar cover was almost deafening in the near-silent library, and, without looking up, Patrick pushed that book off his desk, letting it fall with zero grace into a box waiting for it. 

Patrick grabbed another book from the cart and opened it, grabbing the stamp and stamping DISCARD on the title page with so much force he caught the edge of his finger. He hissed, dropping the stamp and shaking his hand vigorously, which was evidently all the invitation Joe needed to reach out and snatch the book back. 

Patrick scowled. 

“I’m working,” he said shortly, irritably, and Joe made a face Patrick would best classify as ‘placating’, closing the half-discarded book and holding it in front of him like a shield. 

“I can see that,” Joe said carefully, inching closer to the desk. Patrick narrowed his eyes and picked the stamp and Sharpie back up, holding onto them protectively, in case Joe got any wild ideas about stealing them. “You’re working _very_ hard. We all see that and we are all so impressed. You’re working so hard, in fact, that you are doing circulation duties as well.”

Patrick fixed Joe with his best unimpressed look and held his hand out. Joe did not hand the book over. Patrick scowled. 

“I’m being productive,” he said. Joe raised an eyebrow, but, in what Patrick assumed was either a show of growth or a show of pity, he did not roll his eyes like Patrick expected. “Are you really complaining about less shit to do?”

“Uhhh,” Joe said, which meant _yes_. “That’s not the point.”

“Evader,” Patrick muttered. Joe ignored him. 

“Look, you haven’t sat at the ref desk for like, a week.” Patrick didn’t succeed at not rolling his eyes at that, but Joe continued, undisturbed. “This is like bereavement, except you’re being an asshole.”

“I’m being an asshole?” Patrick demanded, actually dropping the stamp and pen to the desk in surprise. “You were there, right? You saw what happened? I’m surprised the Director hasn’t shown up to fire me by now.”

“Andy says to stop fucking moping,” Joe said, folding his arms. “I agree with him.”

“Andy can come crawl out of Narnia or wherever he spends his time and tell me himself,” Patrick said, and reached for the book again. This time, Joe had the _audacity_ to step back, out of Patrick’s reach, and he didn’t even look apologetic. 

Patrick almost wished he got fired. 

“Do you really want Andy to give you a pep talk?” Joe asked. Patrick didn’t reply, trying his best to sneer in disdain at Joe. He was pretty sure he just looked constipated, at least based on Joe’s unimpressed look. “Come on. Just go sit at the ref desk. Interact with human beings. Have you spoken to anyone that doesn’t work here for the past week? Any at all?”

“None of your business,” Patrick said, because the answer was no. 

“That’s a no,” Joe, the library’s resident _asshole_ replied. “Come _on_. Focus on literally anything else.”

“You missed a spot shaving,” Patrick said. 

“Anything but that,” Joe corrected. “You could probably tell one patron to fuck off and Brendon would only mildly lecture you. Take advantage of it.”

“I am not going to tell a patron to fuck off,” Patrick complained. “I have standards. I am professional.”

“Right,” Joe said, but didn’t elaborate on the series of extremely unprofessional things Patrick had done this week, including falling asleep in the breakroom for three hours, blatantly being caught playing candy crush, and making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on Brendon’s desk. 

It was fine. 

“Fine,” Patrick sighed, standing and tugging at the end of his cardigan until it was on straight. Well, straight enough. “_Fine_. Whatever. Ref desk.”

“Ref desk,” Joe said, nodding sagely. “Leave circ duties alone.”

“Whatever,” Patrick said again, with more feeling. He set the discard stamp and Sharpie on the chair, ignoring Joe’s huff, and clipped on his name tag-- _Patrick Stump, adult librarian. _ It was sort of like putting on armor. Joe hadn’t been wrong, it had been a whole week since Patrick saw a patron, and maybe now, with his nametag on, he could at least pretend like nothing had happened at all. 

That fell by the wayside the second he stepped onto the library floor. As he approached the reference desk, shoulders back and head held high, anticipating one of Brendon’s passive aggressive remarks, he noticed that instead of Brendon lounging on the desk like he owned the place, Brendon was instead standing up, back ramrod straight, arms folded and scowling. He appeared to be listening to a man, someone he must know personally based on both of their body language. The man was leaning in close, hissing under his breath, inches from Brendon’s face. Brendon’s scowl was one Patrick had seen once before. It was reserved for people Brendon knew and was pissed at. 

Oh boy. 

He took a step closer, mentally preparing himself for some kind of battle, and he barely had time to metaphorically ready his weapons when the man Brendon was arguing with caught a glimpse of Patrick and scoffed. 

“Someone is here,” the man snapped, and fuck if that wasn’t a familiar voice, too. Patrick was getting pretty sick and tired of recognizing voices moments before his life was ruined. He stopped dead and scowled, too, scowled at every inch of the man, from his too-tight designer jeans, to his spotless white sneakers, to his tragically hipster flannel _tucked in_, to his artfully disheveled beard--he was a walking advertisement for what happened after art school went wrong.

Brendon turned and looked at Patrick, and an expression Patrick couldn’t even _begin_ to read crossed his face. He shook his head, nodding towards his office. 

“Go,” he said. “I’ll come get you when I’m ready for a break.”

“Why send him away?” the man said, tone nasty. “He can hear about it, too.”

“We’re not paying for an event that ended like that,” Brendon said sharply. “And you can tell your boss that. Or I will, if you’re too chicken, Spencer.”

Oh.

That was how Patrick knew that voice. 

It was Smith. _Spencer_ Smith, Kingston Lewis’s manager. 

Pete’s manager. 

Patrick’s scowl darkened. 

“He doesn’t want to be paid,” Smith said shortly. “He feels _bad_.”

“He should,” Brendon said. Smith narrowed his eyes. “Honestly, Spencer, there were a million ways he could have handled that. A million!”

“He did the best he could,” Smith argued. Patrick couldn’t help himself, he audibly scoffed, and Smith’s expression twisted as he turned to face Patrick. “Do you have a problem?”

“No,” Brendon said loudly. “Patrick, _go_.”

“Oh,” Smith said, stopping short. His expression twisted into something impossible to read, and he looked from Brendon, who had all but stepped between Patrick and Smith, and Patrick, who was quite ready to hurl the nearest office supply at Smith. Maybe that stapler. “That’s you.”

“What’s me?” Patrick asked, raising an eyebrow. Smith opened his mouth but Patrick interrupted him before he even got a word out. “Wait! I don’t care. Brendon already told you we aren’t paying. How about you leave and take the loss?”

“Patrick,” Brendon said again, but Patrick wasn’t too keen on listening, not at the moment. His hands were curled into fists at his sides, and Smith glanced at Brendon again, who sighed. “Patrick.”

“It was my event,” Patrick said, ignoring Brendon again. “My event that went so horribly wrong. My reputation in the toilet. So _you_ can go and tell _him_\--” Patrick was pretty sure he didn’t need to elaborate on who _he_ was, especially not after Smith took a half step back. “--to go fuck himself.”

“Patrick!” Brendon said sharply, voice a little pained. “Patrick, you can’t--”

“It was actually my fault,” Smith said. Brendon made an unintelligible noise that Patrick took to mean _why won’t any of these obstinate fuckers listen to me_ but Patrick was too taken aback to pay more attention. He stared at Smith, who seemed to nearly deflate, shoulders slumping, sighing harshly and rubbing the back of his neck. He crossed his arms and leaned against the desk like he belonged there or something. 

Worse was the expression on Brendon’s face, something like frustration and pity etched in the lines around his eyes and mouth, in the set of his jaw. He reached forward and trailed a light touch down one of Smith’s folded arms, and Smith glanced over at Brendon with a look Patrick could only describe as _gentle_.

“I’ll explain,” Brendon offered softly, and Smith shook his head. 

“Uh,” Patrick said loudly, unable to tear his eyes away from the easy contact between two people Patrick could have sworn were complete strangers. “What the fuck is happening right now?”

“It’s okay,” Smith said, to Brendon, and then faced Patrick. “Short version is that Kingston--”

“Pete,” Patrick corrected darkly. A muscle twitched in Smith’s jaw and he rolled his neck a little. 

“I know him as Kingston,” he said shortly. “He had a stalker. After he published the first book, and it took off. He was a lot more out there during that time. A lot more available. But the stalking got so damn bad he became a hermit. I couldn’t blame him, you know? It was--well, it’s not really my place to say. But know it was terrible. But now, five years later, I thought it was time to kind of put himself out there again. It had been years since he’d been identified. It could kind of be like...a new debut. And he liked this library so much I convinced him to say yes when you wrote your letter.”

“And then it fell apart,” Patrick said. Smith nodded stiffly. “I never heard about the stalker.”

“It wasn’t exactly common knowledge,” Smith said. “Everyone in the literary world just knew he dropped off the map. It was the paps that went crazy. Paps, for an author. I know.”

Patrick stared at Smith for a long moment until Smith sighed again, standing back up on both feet and dropping his arms to his sides, slipping his hands into his pockets. 

“I don’t know why he didn’t just tell you,” Smith said, a sort of naked honesty in his voice that took Patrick by surprise, a little. “I have no explanation except that I’ve known him for almost ten years and he can be a fucking moron sometimes. I know he didn’t mean to hurt you. I also know you have the right to be hurt anyway. I don’t know what else there is to say other than I know Kingston--Pete--whoever you want to know him as--I know he’s a good person. Okay?”

“Okay,” Patrick echoed, voice a little hollow, unable to figure out any other word in the entire English language. Smith looked at Patrick for a long moment before wrenching his gaze to Brendon, who was still standing behind the desk, watching the exchange quietly. 

“I’ll see you tonight?” Smith asked quietly, and Brendon nodded. “I’ll be here when you close. Don’t leave the building alone.”

“I won’t,” Brendon said, and, because Patrick guessed Smith wasn’t done taking Patrick entirely by surprise, Smith leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Brendon’s lips, before pulling back and walking swiftly towards the exit, leaving Brendon and Spencer standing in silence. 

Patrick finally managed to wrangle enough brain cells together to break it. 

“Uhh,” he said, and Brendon rolled his eyes, a faint blush high on his cheekbones. Brendon fussed with the scattered papers on the reference desk, ducking his head. The tips of his ears were bright red. “Uhhh?”

“None of your business,” Brendon said, but it had precisely zero power behind it. “Your turn on the desk.”

“Excuse me,” Patrick said, stepping in Brendon’s way. Brendon huffed and folded his arms defensively. Patrick narrowed his eyes. “How long has _that_ been a thing? How did you even meet him? Don’t leave the building alone?”

Brendon looked like he wished to be struck by lightning immediately. Patrick raised an eyebrow until Brendon groaned loudly. 

“Fine,” he said. “Since I got served, I’ve known him since high school, it just kind of happened. Happy?”

“No,” Patrick said, and Brendon rolled his eyes. “Don’t leave the building alone? Does he have a tracker on you?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Brendon said, without any heat. “Ryan got arrested after the protest. He’s out on bail. He left me a colorful voicemail about how he literally plans on murdering me next time he sees me. Spencer is overprotective.”

“Oh,” Patrick said, once again lost for words. Brendon made a face and reached out to poke Patrick’s shoulder until Patrick stumbled out of the way. 

“Oh,” Brendon agreed. “You’re on desk, remember?”

“Right,” Patrick said, and Brendon rolled his eyes again, folding his arms and making a beeline back to his office. Patrick watched him go, his thin torso and bony shoulders suddenly more obvious than they had been before, and, as the office door shut behind Brendon, leaving Patrick alone at the reference desk, Patrick wondered what else he had overlooked lately.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick was leaning back in his office chair, staring at the ceiling. It looked old, like when they remodeled a couple years ago they forgot about his office, specifically, which was probably nonsense and now Patrick was overthinking _ceilings_ of all things. 
> 
> “You know,” Joe said, in a tone of voice that told Patrick that whatever was about to come out of his mouth, Patrick wouldn’t like. “You haven’t moved in like. An hour.”
> 
> Patrick ignored him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope everyone is doing okay! i love you all.

Patrick was leaning back in his office chair, staring at the ceiling. It looked old, like when they remodeled a couple years ago they forgot about his office, specifically, which was probably nonsense and now Patrick was overthinking _ceilings_ of all things. 

“You know,” Joe said, in a tone of voice that told Patrick that whatever was about to come out of his mouth, Patrick wouldn’t like. “You haven’t moved in like. An hour.”

Patrick ignored him. Joe made a noise that was probably a healthy mixture of irritated and amused. Beside him, Andy snorted. 

“Hello,” he called out, exaggerating his words like he was on Broadway and gunning for an Tony. “Earth to Patrick. Can you hear me? I repeat, can you hear me?”

Patrick grunted. He was pretty sure that counted as a response. He was pretty sure that if you looked ‘response’ up on Google, a grunt counted. Trust him. He was a librarian.

Andy sighed, and Patrick could picture his face perfectly. It was the same kind of irritated expression he wore at Joe whenever Joe did something slightly wrong, but not wrong enough for a reprimand. Or, apparently, when Patrick wasn’t being sociable. 

“You’re in love,” Andy declared, and Patrick jerked so hard he nearly fell out of his office chair. He clutched the arms to steady himself, breathing hard against the sudden skip of his heart, and turned his best glare on Andy, who looked unrepentant. On the contrary, Joe, who was standing next to Andy, looked like he was barely containing his glee. 

Patrick hated both of them.

“What?” Andy asked, in response to Patrick’s dirty look. “A toddler could tell. The question is, what are you going to do about it?”

Patrick pointedly looked at his watch. Andy scoffed. 

“You’re being _ridiculous_,” he informed Patrick. “When will your weird, self-imposed vow of silence end?”

_Never_, Patrick thought murderously. Well, in all actuality, it would probably end in the Taco Bell he stopped at after work. But they didn’t know that.

“He’ll talk at Taco Bell,” Joe predicted. Patrick hated him. It must have shown on his face because Joe rolled his eyes and patted the top of Patrick’s head condescendingly. “I know. You’re a very angry little munchkin.”

_I will kill you,_ Patrick thought menacingly. Andy and Joe exchanged a look in which they apparently had a full conversation using only their eyebrows before turning back to Patrick. 

“We’ll leave you to stew, lover boy,” Andy said. 

“But it is getting annoying, so if you could wrap it up, that would be great,” Joe added. Patrick scowled, but before he could throw on his nastiest expression, the pair of clowns who’d apparently escaped clown hell turned as one and left his office. Patrick stared after them until his hand cramped and he was suddenly aware that he was _still_ gripping the arms of his office chair like his life depended on it. 

“Ouch,” he whispered under his breath, loosening his grip and shaking out his hands. He glanced back out his office door--they had left it _open_, those animals--and turned back to his computer with a sigh. 

He’d been staring at the ceiling so long his monitor had gone to sleep. He gave the mouse a halfhearted wiggle and let his gaze wander to his bulletin board, chock full of mostly out of date flyers. His eye was drawn to one in particular, pinned in the center with a reverence Patrick hardly remembered feeling. 

**Kingston Lewis**  
_Central Chicago Public Library proudly welcomes New York Times bestselling novelist Kingston Lewis for an in-branch talk. Adults only. _

Fuck. 

Patrick closed his eyes for a long moment, mind unwittingly going to the conversation earlier in the day with Brendon and Smith, those little shits. He really hadn’t ever known about Pete--Kingston--_whoever’s_ stalker, and Patrick had googled him a lot. A lot. A _lot_ a lot. 

Point was, a stalker never came up, but Patrick had been focused on official literary-geared stuff, not necessarily the rags that Smith had mentioned. After a deep breath and a wild thought of _am I really doing this_, he googled _Kingston Lewis_ and waited. 

First article was about the disastrous library event, which Patrick winced and quickly scrolled past, followed by his Wikipedia and official website, which Patrick also ignored. He kept scrolling until he got to People Magazine’s website, with a big bold headline: **Erotica Breeds Stalker** and Patrick wondered how the _hell_ he hadn’t noticed that before. 

The answer was obvious. Patrick didn’t think to look outside of his academic bubble. 

The article was kind of sickening, written in that kind of gross _hard on for tragedy_ most rags had for these kinds of stories. It made Patrick’s teeth ache but he pressed on, taking in every word as quickly as possible until he got to the end, to a badly-taken picture of Pete walking down the street. Patrick frowned. 

Pete’s hair was bleached in this picture, which Patrick had never seen before. The caption said it had been taken in LA, six years ago, between his debut and his second novel, which was apparently when a stalker destroyed his life. The article said Pete was moving to be safe, but didn’t say where Pete was moving to. Patrick could only assume Chicago. 

Patrick stared at the screen until his vision swirled and he blinked, refocusing. He drummed his fingers on his desk for a moment, thinking--it kind of...made sense? That Pete didn’t say anything? The words were like heartburn but Patrick ignored it, still thinking hard. The stalking had to be bad for Pete to flee across the country, and to be honest--though he kind of hated to admit it--it made sense for Pete to not tell Patrick, who was Kingston’s number one fan. 

Ugh. Love sucked. 

Patrick sighed, long and hard. Okay. Okay _fine_, maybe Pete was scared. Sure. And maybe hiding was to protect himself, though it seemed extreme. No one had seen Kingston Lewis since the debut of his first book, not face to face. And maybe that was to do with the stalker, though Patrick always assumed it was just to hide his identity in case he was like, a doctor by day. Or a lawyer. Lawyers wrote erotica sometimes, right?

Patrick only hesitated half a second before typing _Pete Wentz_ into the search bar and waiting, chewing his lip in anticipation. When the page loaded, Patrick blinked in surprise, letting his lip go as he looked at the results with apprehension. 

Not a doctor and not a lawyer, but apparently he was...an advice columnist? 

Even before Patrick knew who Pete was, an _advice columnist_ was not on the list of _possible careers_ Patrick had. A slightly hysterical laugh bubbled out of his chest as he thought, humorlessly, that Pete hadn’t actually been lying, about his job at least. He really was self-employed. 

It was such a dumb thing to focus on, and Patrick shook his head, scrolling down past the actual column until he paused on a website called _a homeboy’s life_.

It looked like it was a blog, and the little sample caught Patrick’s attention right away. He frowned, leaning forward a little, like that might actually help him read it. 

_So I did something really fucking stupid, guys._

Before Patrick could talk himself out of it, he opened the blog, resting his hand on his chin and reading. 

_It’s not really anyone’s fault but mine. Cause, like, I had a million opportunities to come clean and maybe it wouldn’t have ended up the way it had but I didn’t. And I can’t really blame him--yes, him, that one, the one I’ve been talking about--for leaving. Cause I’m the one that fucked up. _

Patrick’s breath caught. His eyes watered a little--allergies, he swore--and he scrolled down, tension doubling across his shoulders. 

_Spence thinks it’s his fault but it’s not. He just wanted what was best for me, you know? And I know I’m being vague, and I’m sorry, but I have to be. It was just--it was supposed to be okay. It was supposed to be a fun thing, but I lied and I hid and I ruined it all. I ruined it for Spence and for him and I don’t know how to make it better. I don’t know if I can make it better. I’m lost. _

Patrick closed his eyes for a long moment, before biting his lip and scrolling down, past blog entry after blog entry, until he paused on one titled _here in search of your glory_.  
It was dated the day Pete kissed him at the coffee shop and Patrick sniffed back what he couldn’t deny were the beginning of tears. 

_I did it, you guys._

“Oh, fuck,” Patrick mumbled, swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand.

_I know I’ve been talking about him for months, acting like some crazy dude, but today it happened. I fucking kissed him. Literally everything in my life is absolutely perfect and I would give up anything for it to stay this way._

“Fuck,” Patrick repeated, with feeling this time, and stood up quickly, the chair rolling away as Patrick wiped his eyes with his cardigan sleeve and marched out of his office, across the library, and into Brendon’s office without so much as a knock. 

“Yes?” Brendon asked slowly, after a long moment of Patrick standing there like a lunatic. Patrick shook himself and swallowed hard. 

“One,” he said, grateful his voice didn’t should like he’d been on the verge of tears. His cred was barely holding together as it was. “Ryan is a fucking asshole and I will literaly murder him if he comes anywhere near you again.”

“Thank you?” Brendon said, tone making it a question, raising his eyebrow. “Are you okay?”

“Stellar,” Patrick said. “I need Spencer’s phone number.”

“Uhh,” Brendon said. “Why?” 

“Because I don’t remember where Pete lives,” Patrick said quickly, gesturing with his hand for Brendon’s phone. Brendon smirked and Patrick rolled his eyes. “Shut up and let me talk to your boyfriend.”

“Is that how you talk to your boss?” Brendon asked, smirk growing. “You can’t talk to Spencer, I’m afraid.”

“What?” Patrick asked, nearly taking a step back in surprise. “Why?”

“Because he will lecture you until you change your mind and I don’t want that,” Brendon said, leaning on his elbows and looking up at Patrick with an expression of mirth mixed with fascination. Patrick scowled. 

“So how am I supposed to get it?” he asked impatiently, and Brendon inclined his head. 

“I don’t know,” he said, all false earnesty and wide eyes. “I mean, if I wasn’t your boss and if I didn’t have a very high ethic level--”

Patrick snorted. Brendon ignored him, continuing like there hadn’t been an interruption at all.

“--I would point out that Pete Wentz has checked out materials before.”

Patrick stared at Brendon blankly. Brendon looked up at the sky like he was praying for some brain cells to wake up in Patrick’s head. 

“And so,” Brendon said, slowly, emphasizing each word like Patrick was drunk and couldn’t comprehend English anymore. “He has to have a library card.”

“Yes?” Patrick guessed. Brendon rolled his eyes and leaned forward more. 

“And to get a library card, you need an…”

“Address?” Patrick said, unsure where this was going, until something connected in his head and he froze. 

Brendon smirked in satisfaction. 

“There we go,” he said smugly. “We never had this conversation.”

“Right,” Patrick said, and fled from Brendon’s office, making a beeline to the circulation desk, heart in his throat. 

This would work.

It had to.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But then he remembered the words on Pete’s secret blog, the way he’d talked all hopefully about Patrick, and the crushed way he wrote about what happened, and before Patrick could consciously decide one way or another, he raised his hand and knocked quickly—one, two, three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow! i can’t believe it’s over! i am so thankful for every single one of you that read and commented and encouraged me. i couldn’t have done this without you. thank you to the pack and to my wife and to my dog. 
> 
> i hope you’ve loved these two idiots as much as i have.

Patrick shifted from foot to foot, staring at the front door. He hadn’t knocked yet. He didn’t know what he was waiting for, exactly—divine intervention, maybe—but it felt like it would take enormous effort to lift his arm and knock at the door and alert Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz of his presence. 

Through the window by the door, he could see the bluish glow of a TV in the semi-darkness of the house, which told him Pete was most likely home, at least. For all the good that would do. Patrick couldn’t decide if he wanted Pete to be home or not. Everything in his head was twisted up and confused. 

But then he remembered the words on Pete’s secret blog, the way he’d talked all hopefully about Patrick, and the crushed way he wrote about what happened, and before Patrick could consciously decide one way or another, he raised his hand and knocked quickly—one, two, three. He held his breath, listening for something, anything beyond that door. He didn’t hear anything, but the TV was still on and while there was no car in the driveway, Pete did have a garage, so Patrick knocked again, a little harder. 

This time he heard something beyond the door, some shuffling, what sounded like a groan, and then, finally, footsteps, making their way to the door. Patrick felt a hard twist of anxiety in his gut, a tiny voice whispering _run!_ despite the fact that Patrick _chose_ to come here and Patrick _wanted_ to see Pete. He gulped down air as the lock turned and time came to a screeching halt around him, summer air thick and heavy on his skin, as the door swung open, revealing Pete in sweats, a t-shirt, and hair that was too messy to be real, staring at Patrick in what can only be described as utter shock.

“You’re an idiot,” Patrick said. It wasn’t where he thought he was going with this. Pete blinked, but seemed incapable of speech, just clung to the door handle like it was the only thing keeping him upright. For all Patrick knew, that could be the truth. Patrick forged on. “You’re an _idiot_. All you had to do—literally _all_ you had to do was use your big boy words. You’re a goddamn writer, words should be no problem for you! You should have just told me, and this—” Patrick gestured between them “—would have never happened.”

Pete stared at him like he didn’t speak a word of English, those stupid gorgeous eyes locked on him. He seemed like he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming or if this was actually happening, and Patrick raised an eyebrow, wordlessly challenging him to talk.

“What wouldn’t have happened,” Pete asked, seemingly finding his powers of speech. Patrick rolled his eyes, huffed out a breath. “I would have still fucked up. The event—”

“The event wasn’t your fault,” Patrick said, slightly exasperated. His pounding heart had settled down to a normal rhythm, like it knew where Patrick was and was happy to be home. The clench in his gut settled down and his shoulders relaxed as he took in Pete—hunched over in defeat, like he was trying to make himself as small as possible. Patrick took a step forward. “Pete. Out of everything that happened, the event was one hundred percent _not your fault._”

“It was, though,” Pete mumbled nervously. “It was because—look. I didn’t recognize him, all those times in the library. If I had, I—I could have done something, I could have—”

“Pete,” Patrick interrupted, and Pete jerked like he’d been pushed, looking up at Patrick with eyes so wide and fearful Patrick felt his heart ache. “Who didn’t you recognize?”

Pete swallowed nervously, clenching and unclenching his hand on the doorknob, looking like he was three seconds from bolting. Patrick sighed, glancing around, then stepped forward again, and again, until he was in Pete’s house and crowding him back far enough to shut and lock the door behind him. Pete was watching his every move, jaw clenched, and Patrick reached out slowly to take his hand in his, the last little bit of his anger ebbing away. 

Pete’s breath caught as Patrick gave a little tug, until Pete was stumbling forward into Patrick’s arms, resting his head on Patrick’s shoulder, breath tickling Patrick’s neck. Patrick’s hands snuck under Pete’s shirt, just a little, to smooth fingerprints over the soft skin of Pete’s hips. Pete took a shuddering breath. 

“I had a stalker,” he said finally, and Patrick felt his lips move on the skin of his neck. Patrick nodded, stroking Pete’s hip as Pete battled with himself silently, breathing shallow and shaky. “I’m sure you read about it. I know Spencer mentioned it to you. I was living in LA and at first, you know, it was kind of cute. I was getting little gifts and excited notes and it was adorable. But then he started to be everywhere, then he showed up wherever I was, even if I was just grocery shopping. Then he broke into my house. I had to get out. I had to hide, after that.”

“Of course you did,” Patrick said quietly. His _soul_ ached, bitter regret in the back of his throat for being so mad at Pete, and for holding onto his grudge for so long. Pete’s breathing hitched. “I’m sorry I was so stubborn.”

Pete shook his head quickly, looking up at Patrick with wide, fierce eyes. 

“You had every right to be mad,” he said, voice thick. “I lied to you. I can’t imagine what you thought.”

“I thought a lot of things,” Patrick admitted quietly. “I thought you were messing with me, I thought—I can’t even remember now. It’s so insignificant. I was being stubborn and resentful and I should have just talked to you.”

“I don’t blame you,” Pete whispered. 

“I know,” Patrick said. “I know you don’t. But I don’t blame you, either. Not after what you’ve been through.”

Pete closed his eyes and exhaled shakily. His grip on Patrick’s waist was bordering on painful, but Patrick didn’t say anything, just pressed his thumbs gently against Pete’s hipbones until he shuddered. Pete swallowed and met Patrick’s gaze.

“Brendon had it worse,” Pete said, so quiet Patrick almost missed it. Patrick blinked, then frowned. 

“What?” he asked. He wasn’t sure where that had come from or where Pete was even going with it. Pete chewed on his bottom lip, which frankly already looked chewed up, so Patrick reached out and smoothed his thumb over it gently. Pete squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. 

“Ryan looks way different than he did in LA,” Pete said. “But then again, I do, too.”

It took several seconds for Pete’s words to sink in, Patrick watching Pete fidget with a frown until the reality hit him like a runaway train. 

“He was your stalker?” Patrick asked, voice choked. Pete looked away, which was all the answer Patrick needed. “He followed you here.”

“I’m not sure if he did,” Pete said quietly. “But I know he found out about the event at the library. All that time I didn’t recognize him, he probably recognized me. I don’t know Brendon that well, but Spencer does, and it doesn’t take much to realize that Ryan asked for a divorce as soon as my event was announced.”

Sudden, white hot anger growled in Patrick’s stomach, tangling up his tongue and making him almost see red—literally. He grit his teeth hard and looked up into Pete’s uncertain eyes. 

“He thought he would get you,” Patrick said, voice flat. “He thought he would get you, but then there was me.”

“So he sabotaged the event,” Pete finished quietly. “I’m so sorry, Patrick.”

Patrick cupped Pete’s cheek before he’d even thought about it, guiding Pete forward until they were resting their foreheads together, breathing in the same air for a long moment until Patrick spoke. 

“This is not your fault,” Patrick said. “I know my reaction didn’t help things, but this—Ryan, Brendon, the event—was _ not_ your fault. Okay?”

“I’m having trouble believing that,” Pete admitted, and that fury that had risen up in Patrick at Ryan’s name died down to that dull ache of sympathy and hurt. He tilted Pete’s head back a little. 

“I’ll remind you,” Patrick whispered. “Every day if I have to.”

“Every day?” Pete asked, sounding confused, like he didn’t think Patrick still liked him. Loved him. Cared about him. Patrick bit back a helpless smile and nodded. 

“Every day,” he confirmed, and pressed their lips together in a long, lingering kiss, swallowing Pete’s surprised noise, one hand still cupping Pete’s cheek, the other still curled around Pete’s hip. Pete pulled away, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, breathing heavy, and Patrick knew he was looking at the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. 

“You really?” Pete asked, clearly unable to form a coherent sentence. Patrick nodded and Pete made a choked noise, diving back in, hands running everywhere, from Patrick’s face to his hair to his shoulders, like Pete couldn’t decide where to touch first. Patrick hummed into Pete’s mouth, into that familiarity he’d missed so goddamn much, and tilted his head, softening and deepening the kiss until his vision and his focus narrowed down to the burning of Pete’s skin underneath his hands, the pounding of his heart, the slide of Pete’s tongue and lips against his own, the tiny, desperate noises Pete was making. 

It was all Patrick needed and he couldn’t believe he’d waited so long to get it back. 

They had more to talk about, of course. They had more to say to each other, more to confess, more to promise, but that could all come later. For now, Patrick was content to stand in the dim hallway, kissing Pete with every fiber of his being that had been screaming Pete’s name since Patrick ran away. 

—-

Hours later, as Patrick laid in what could only be regarded as _fucked-out bliss_, Pete’s light touch tracing patterns around the trail of hickeys on Patrick’s neck, he thought somewhat deliriously: _I could get used to this. _. 

Then, because this was his life and he didn’t know what he expected, Pete immediately ruined it. 

“I was thinking,” Pete said, having evidently leaned in close enough for his lips to press against Patrick’s neck, causing a shudder to go through Patrick. Patrick felt Pete’s smirk and rolled his shoulder pointedly, until Pete leaned back so Patrick could turn his head on the pillow and glare blearily at him. 

“That must have been hard,” he said, voice still sexed-out and stupid. Pete rolled his eyes. 

“_Okay_,” he replied, drawing the word out just to annoy Patrick. He poked Patrick in the ribs until Patrick sighed and sat up to accept a kiss. “I was _thinking_ that we should get married.”

Patrick stopped. He stared at Pete, one eyebrow raised. Pete’s expression didn’t change, not like Patrick expected. He expected Pete’s lips to morph into a goofy grin, for him to giggle at the look on Patrick’s face, but instead, his expression was frighteningly earnest, eyes searching Patrick’s for any hint to his answer. 

Patrick opened his mouth, not know what he was going to say until the words tumbled free. 

“That’s not a proposal,” he said firmly. “I refuse to accept that as a proposal.”

Pete’s eyebrow quirked. 

“Does that mean if I proposed better, you’d say yes?” he asked, and Patrick couldn’t deny the flare of hope he heard in Pete’s voice. He swallowed hard and leaned in to kiss Pete gently. 

“Do it and find out,” he whispered, lips inches from Pete’s and Pete did laugh, this time, laughed and kissed Patrick over and over through his disbelieving laughter, rolling on top and kissing every thought that wasn’t _Pete_ out of Patrick’s head.

_Mental note_, the last of his braincells whispered, as Pete moved on to kiss Patrick’s neck, making him giggle and squirm. _Thank Brendon for breaking the law. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stay safe, all of you. take care of yourselves. if you wanna talk, find me on tumblr at smalltalktorture.

**Author's Note:**

> i am at smalltalktorture.tumblr.com if u wanna shout or something.


End file.
